


Shades of Purple

by Ayla221bee



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Flirting, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Bisexual Male Character, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fluff, M/M, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes Has Feelings, Romance, Young Mycroft Holmes/Young Greg Lestrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 49,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayla221bee/pseuds/Ayla221bee
Summary: "When it comes to sexuality, it is not just black and white, there are shades of purple in between.'Greg and Mycroft meet in a gay bar in Soho in 1988, there was something between them but timing always got in the way.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Lestrade
Comments: 64
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnwatsonblog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatsonblog/gifts).



> The slightly late fic that I was working on for Pride Month and I just wanted to give some love for bisexual Lestrade. I also wrote this to thank Johnwatsonblog who has kindly put up with my moaning when I write and always provides wonderful ideas amongst my moaning.

It was the music that Greg could remember the most from that first visit to that bar. When he listened to those songs, Greg found himself brought back to that night in 1988.

It had been over twenty years and Greg could remember that night so clearly. He could remember how nervous he felt, it was his first time visiting that particular club. His first time in Soho actually. He had only moved to London a few months ago and was still finding his way around the place. It had taken him weeks to summon up the courage to step into Soho for the clubs. 

He could remember waiting outside in the cold, even walking through the door was nerve-racking for him. It felt like it was a large announcement to the world that he liked men. He had never admitted it to anyone before and he doubted that he would ever do so at home. It had taken him all his courage to look at himself in the mirror and say ‘I’m bisexual,’ to himself. 

The relief he felt that uttering those words to himself was instant. He had known for years that he liked men. He tried his best to ignore his feelings for them and he tried to turn a blind eye when he saw a certain celebrity or a good looking and sweaty man in the gym. He had some luck in ignoring those feelings, he liked girls as well and he was able to get a girlfriend easy enough back home. 

Admitting to himself that he was bisexual was rather anti-climatic if Greg had to be perfectly honest. He had expected it to be this massive life-changing revelation but it felt like he was saying out his shoe size to himself in the mirror. He mostly felt rather pleased and rather cool, all the rockstars he admired were bisexual and he felt like he was a part of their club. 

He could hear Wham! playing from the other side of the street and he watched two men huddled close together and kissing. It was the first time that he had seen that happen in the streets and no one seemed to pay them any attention. 

  
There was a sudden surge of courage that ran through him and he quickly entered the bar, nodding to the two men outside who looked at him confused. He could hear one mutter behind his back ‘He’s just come back from having tea with Aslan and Mr Tumnes.’ 

  
Greg had little idea what that meant and quickly put the thought to mind once a shirtless man caught his attention and David Bowie was being blasted through the speakers. 

He ordered himself a drink and stood by the bar for a long moment, slightly unsure of what he was meant to do or how to act. He had never had been much of a dancer, not when he was sober at least. He watched a large crush of men on the dance floor, some dancing together, some shirtless and sweaty. Dancing with them seemed rather unappealing at the moment, the song that they were dancing to was not Greg’s favourite. 

The other men in the bar seemed to know what they were doing. They knew where to go, who to talk to, how to ask another man to dance or for a drink. He admired the confidence of a man who wore more makeup than his sister did, Greg shouted out how much he liked his lipstick when the man caught him staring. 

Some of the men were shirtless, there were a few wearing pieces of leather. A couple of them wore an earring. Some feminine men dressed better than Greg had ever done in his life. He didn’t care too much for men with moustaches and beards. 

  
He had the feeling that he didn’t fit in. He wondered if it was obvious that he was new to the club and out of the closet. If the men in the club could tell that he still liked girls even some of the blokes looked as if they had never even kissed one. He wasn’t as flamboyant as some of the other men or had a desire to wear leather. 

It made him wonder if he had a place in this bar or the gay community. He didn’t feel gay enough. He hardly knew if he had a type of men he liked. He hadn’t even kissed a bloke before and he wondered if it was obvious. 

He looked across the bar and noticed someone who was about his age looking at him. Greg wondered if it was his first time in the club as well, he looked unsure about what to do with himself, he stood awkwardly by the wall with a drink in his hand, occasionally swaying to the music. 

  
Greg nodded in his direction and shot him a grin. The bloke on the other side of the bar ran his hand through ginger curls, returned the smile and started to make his way to the side of the bar. 

“How's your night?” Greg asked after he had ordered himself and Mike another drink. Greg wasn’t too sure if his name was Mike, it had been too loud to hear properly. He had asked him several times what his name was and he was sure that he kept calling himself Mike.

“Much better than it had been before,” Mike said. “It is your first time here. You’ve got that look about you. I can tell.”  
  
Greg raised an eyebrow. “What look is that?” He challenged. “Is it the same one that you had before you saw me? You looked like a deer in headlights. First time as well?”  
  


Mike leaned in close to listen to him, he moved in even closer when someone jostled him to get a drink. He could smell his aftershave and he caught the glimpse of a few freckles scattered across his nose. He swallowed hard as he felt their bodies press together, he wondered if Mike had moved in closer deliberately. 

  
“To a gay bar,” Mike said. “I’ve not long turned twenty-one. I thought that I would allow myself to have a night of freedom before I go to university next week.”

“Are you...you know?” Greg asked awkwardly unsure about what he wanted to say. It was so much easier with girls, he had more practice with them. 

“Gay?” Mike asked, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “I’ve not just come here for the music.”  
  
“The music could be better,” Greg said with a shrug. 

  
He glanced down and fiddled with the label of his beer bottle and wished he knew what to say. He found it incredibly hard to believe that someone has good looking at Mike had been wanting to talk to him especially with how much he stuck out. 

  
“I agree,” Mike said. “Gay bars are not my thing.”

“I’m not sure if they are mine either,” Greg said with a sigh. “You don’t have to talk to me. There’s plenty of other blokes around here who are probably more interesting than me. I barely know what I’m doing here.”

Mike looked at him with an amused smile on his face and finished off his drink. “Do you want to leave? I’d rather have a proper conversation than shouting in your ear.”

Greg nervously finished off his beer, nodded, and let Mike drag him out of the bar. 

* * *

“How long have you been out for?” Mike asked breaking the comfortable silence between them. He offered the cigarette that was dangling between his fingers. “I’m assuming that is what you meant when you said that you did not know what you were doing.”

Greg accepted the cigarette and placed it between his lips. There was a jolt than ran through him as his and Mike’s hand brushed against another. “Two months,” Greg eventually answered. “I’ve known that I’ve liked blokes since school though, just had girlfriends. What about you?”

Mike let out a chuckle and leaned against the wall, his hand brushing dangerously close to his own. “I have known since I discovered the definition of the word,” he said. “ Admittedly, E.M. Forester’s Maurice placed the last few pieces in the puzzle for me.”

Greg shifted awkwardly on his feet and scuffed out the cigarette with his shoe. “Mind if I ask you something stupid?”

  
MIke raised an eyebrow and shot him an amused smile. “Do you feel like you fit in with those blokes in the bar?” Greg asked eventually. “I’m not sure if I’m gay enough for them. I did have a girlfriend not long ago.”

Mike let out an amused chuckle and absent mindlessly-fiddled with the collar of Greg’s jacket. “Bisexual people are allowed in the bar,” he said. “People should not care about what percentage of you likes girls. I do not care in the slightest, Greg.”

He noticed how close Mike was to him, he could almost hear his heartbeat and how it was hammering in his chest. It felt almost difficult to breathe when he realised that it would take very little effort to kiss Mike. He wondered if Mike fancied him and wanted to kiss him as much as he wanted to kiss Mike. 

Greg suddenly wished that he knew that to do or what he was meant to say. The confidence that he had with girls was non-existent when it came to blokes. His confidence was only a construct when it came to Mike.   
  
Mike pulled out his watch and sighed. “I’m afraid that I’ll need to go soon. I’ve got a train to catch and I’ll need to get to university in the morning.”

Greg shoved his hands in his pocket and tried to hide the feeling of disappointment that crashed over him. “I would have asked you for another drink if you didn’t have to go,” he said. “I’m wondering if you would be in London soon?”

“Are you asking me out?” Mike asked with a chuckle. 

“Would it be alright if I did?” Greg asked. “I’m not sure what is the right way to do it with a bloke. I suppose that you don’t have a better way of doing so, Mike.”

“I would like that,” Mike grinned. 

He pulled out a pen and a scrap of paper from nowhere and scribbled down a phone number and pressed it into Greg’s hand. 

“I suppose that I should go soon,” he said, shuffling on his feet. 

“I wish that you could stay for another drink.” 

Mike thought for a long moment and took in a few deep breaths as if he was trying to summon up the courage for something. “I do not normally do this. I’m blaming the alcohol.” 

“Do what?” Greg asked.

Mike answered him with a kiss. It was slightly awkward as he bashed his nose into Mike's at the start with how enthusiastic he was. It was different from kissing girls but he liked it. He never imagined that he would like it so much. Mike’s hands grabbed the lapels of his jacket and pressed him against the wall as he kissed him. Mike did not protest as he raked his hands through his hair. He never had a girlfriend who tilted his jaw to kiss him harder or had large rough hands that pressed him to the wall. 

Greg had never expected that snogging a bloke in a sidestreet in Soho to be so brilliant. It made him wonder why he hadn’t done it before. 

“I do apologise,” Mike said. “I am not sure what came over me. The alcohol must have gone to my head.” 

He attempted to smooth down his hair but it did not cooperate. He fiddled with Greg’s lapels instead and tried to straighten them out. 

“That was brilliant,” Greg grinned. 

He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled on his feet. Mike did the same and looked rather disappointed having to leave. 

"I don’t want you to miss your train,” Greg sighed. “I’ll call you soon.”

“I look forward to it,” Mike said with a smile. 

He leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth, the soft touch was warm and full of longing. It felt too much like a goodbye and far too final for Greg’s liking. 

“I’ll see you around, Mike,” Greg said, he showed off the bit of paper. “Get home safe, alright.”

Mike let out a chuckle and shook his head at him. “I’ve told you countless times in the bar,” he said. “My name is Mycroft.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“I don’t normally do anything like this,” Mycroft murmured, grinning, as he ran his fingers through Greg’s hair. “I did not expect to see you at the club tonight.”  
> "Greg leaned back against the headboard and traced his fingers along with constellation like freckles on Mycroft’s arm. It was impossible not to smile back. He had the odd feeling that the earth had turned a certain way for them to meet up again. He did briefly wonder if it was fate. He had always been a bit of a romantic. 
> 
> “What would you have done if you didn’t see me then?” Greg asked with a grin. “Just listened to the music?”'

_ Soho 1989 _

It had been about a year since he had that wonderful kiss in a sidestreet in Soho with a stranger and Greg had not been able to get it out of his head.

Greg had kissed other people in the past six or so months since that evening, both men and women, but they felt rather empty compared to the kiss he had with Mycroft. He liked the kisses that they had with those strangers in clubs but they weren’t the same, there wasn’t the same spark between him and the person who he kissed. 

The kisses that he had exchanged with old girlfriends and strangers before Mycroft didn’t feel that exciting. Greg spent hours thinking about that kiss in Soho and he often wondered why it could never leave his mind. He knew that it was somewhat juvenile to think of a kiss as special...but it was. 

Greg wasn’t sure if it was because it was his first kiss with a man or it was the alcohol that made it so thrilling. It might have been the fact that he had been so nervous even stepping into that bar in Soho and he had the feeling that he was doing something rather rebellious, going against the norm. It was half the reason why Greg considered his bisexuality to be somewhat ‘cool,’ other than the fact that he was in the same club as Bowie and Freddy Mercury. 

Greg found it somewhat impossible to move on from that kiss, no matter how many times he tried. He knew that he did tend to fall quickly and hard, and he had not been able to shake off the fragility of his teenage years when it came to matters of the heart. 

He had moped for days after his date with Mycroft had gotten cancelled last minute. He had been so excited and incredibly nervous to go out with Mycroft. He had spent ages picking something to wear, the best way to style his hair, and he spent far too long debating about the best way to greet Mycroft and if he was meant to bring flowers or not. 

It was through a phone call from Mycroft the evening before their date that had put an end to Greg’s plans. He usually loved his phone calls with Mycroft, they had at least two of them a week since they had met. They were often the highlight of Greg’s week when the two of them talked about everything and nothing. 

Greg hadn’t been that keen on phone calls after the last one that he had exchanged with Mycroft. He tended to associate them with disappointment after the date had been cancelled. 

Mycroft sounded positively upset, almost disappointed as he spoke on the phone, he tried to hide it and put on a bit of a ‘telephone voice,’ that sounded posher than how he normally talked. He could tell that Mycroft was heavily burdened with something, he tried to ask what was wrong and Mycroft changed the subject, furiously denying that something was wrong before apologising once more about changing the plans.

  
He hung up the phone shortly with the vague promise that they would arrange another day. Putting down the phone felt a bit too final for Greg’s liking and the goodbye that they shared felt a bit too permanent for Greg’s liking. 

He had only known Mycroft for a few weeks through one kiss and countless hours on the phone and somehow Mycroft had managed to leave a permanent imprint on Greg that seemed impossible to move on from. 

* * *

Greg smoked two cigarettes to build up the courage to walk into the club in Soho. 

  
He could hardly understand why he felt so nervous, it wasn’t as if it was his first time in the club these days. It had been the first time he had been in months, his girlfriend didn’t like it when he went out to clubs and he had stopped going to keep her happy. 

  
Kate didn’t like the idea of him looking at other women and Greg didn’t think that she would be exactly thrilled to catch him looking at a bloke. He hadn’t told her that he liked men and he kept it hidden deep like an old jacket in the back of the wardrobe. 

It wasn’t as if he was ashamed of being bisexual, he found the fact so unimportant. He never went around telling people who he fancied what hand he wrote with and he didn’t tell people that he was bisexual. It was a pointless bit of information that only mattered to him and no one else. 

At one point in the five months of his relationship with Kate, Greg wondered if his bisexuality was a phase. He felt as if he had forgotten that he liked men at one point in his efforts of fitting in with other couples and pretending to be straight. He felt as if he didn’t really fit in with them, almost as if he was an outsider as he had been with men right before his relationship with Kate. 

He put the thought out of his head as quickly as it arrived once a good looking bartender caught his eye. 

Greg scuffed his cigarette out with his boot and sauntered into the club with great ease despite not being there for months. 

He couldn’t even understand why he felt so nervous, it wasn’t as if the security by the door would ask him about his dating history before they let him, or the bar staff would refuse to serve him once they found out that he had not long ended a relationship with his girlfriend.

Greg ordered himself a drink, stood by the edge of the bar and allowed himself to enjoy the music. He knew that after a drink or two, he would be on the dance floor amongst the large group of men dancing to _Dead or Alive_ and _Culture Club_ , it would be the perfect way to recover after a disastrous breakup. 

Greg made his way to the dance floor and allowed himself to get lost in the music. The Smiths had never been his favourite thing to dance but Greg did not care, he needed to dance and escape the real world for a bit. This song and being in this club were the only things that mattered. 

After dancing to two songs, someone across the bar caught his eye. It had been about a year since he had last seen Mycroft and months since their date was cancelled the day before, but Greg was thrilled to see him regardless. Greg wasn’t too sure if it was the alcohol that was talking but honestly couldn’t care. 

Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement and shot him a shy grin across the bar once he had caught his eye. 

He tried to give Mycroft his best inviting grin as he made himself to the bar, swaying to the music as he walked. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Greg said with a grin as Mycroft approached him. “I thought that gay bars weren’t your thing? What brings you here tonight?”

“I do like the music,” Mycroft said with a sheepish expression on his face. “I was wondering if I could buy you a drink? It is the least that I can do after the last time we talked.”

Greg nodded enthusiastically, he had never been someone who turned down a drink. “I’ll have the same as you.”

Mycroft nodded and braved the packed bar and eventually came back with two glasses in his hands. “I ended up with rum instead of whisky, I hope that you don’t mind.”

Greg happily accepted the glass that was pushed into his hand and he huddled up close to Mycroft, partly to hear him better. “How is university?” Greg asked, rather unsure about what he was meant to say. “I suppose that it was crazy enough that you had to cancel all those months ago.”

Mycroft grimaced and sighed before he spoke. “I can assure you that I did not want to cancel on you. I am surprised that you were happy to see me, then again, going by that dancing of yours, I assume that you might be somewhat intoxicated.”

Greg raised an eyebrow and removed his glass from his lips. “I am not that drunk,” he said. “Am I not allowed to be happy to see you?”

“No one is usually happy to see me,” Mycroft replied. 

“Well, I’m glad to be the first one,” Greg said with a smile. 

He was pushed close into Mycroft’s side as someone shoved past him to get to the bar. Greg didn’t move away and stayed in close, Mycroft didn’t seem to mind too much. He scanned Mycroft up and down taking him all in, making Mycroft blush slightly as he noticed. “You look really good,” he said into Mycroft’s ear. “I like your shirt.”

“I like your hair,” Mycroft said somewhat awkwardly as if he had never really complimented someone before. “You make me think of James Dean when you have that jacket on. The earring is new.”

Greg ran his hand through his hair and shuffled in closer. “Have you come here to find someone? Anyone caught your eye?”

Mycroft took in a deep breath and took a long sip of his drink for courage before he nodded. “I do not think that he might be interested...We were meant to be going out for dinner before I regretfully had to cancel.”

Greg finished off his drink and grabbed Mycroft’s hand before the other had much a chance to respond. “You can have a dance with me and we’ll see what happens.” 

“I do not dance,” Mycroft said. “I have never danced in my life and I will never dance.”

He did not let go out his hand despite his protests and allowed Greg to drag him to the dance floor. He stood there somewhat awkwardly, swaying to the music as Greg started to dance. 

“God, I love this song,” Greg said loudly that Mycroft could hear him. “Come one, have some fun and let your hair down. I reckon that you are too serious.”

“I am capable of having fun,” Mycroft protested. 

  
“It’s impossible not to have fun when you are on a dance floor with good looking blokes,” Greg teased, pulling Mycroft in close. “You are the best-looking one.”

Mycroft snorted loudly and shook his head. “You must be very drunk.” 

Greg pulled him in close and shook his head. There was a slight buzz from the alcohol but it was pleasant. The atmosphere of the club, the music and being with Mycroft was responsible for his good mood than the alcohol. He had needed this so badly after being in a disastrous relationship. 

“We don’t have to dance,” he said to Mycroft once the song had ended. Mycroft seemed to enjoy watching him dance than actually wanting to dance himself and swayed awkwardly to the music. 

“I told you that I couldn’t dance,” Mycroft said into his ear. “You are a fantastic dancer, everyone is watching you.”

Greg cast an eye around the room and turned his attention back to Mycroft. “I haven’t been dancing in a while, my girlfriend didn’t like it.”

Mycroft looked him up and down and bit his bottom lip, he looked rather deep in thought. “Would this girlfriend mind if I bought you another drink? Or if I took you somewhere else?” 

Greg wrapped his arm around Mycroft’s waist and attempted to sway with him to the music in the attempt to get him to ‘dance,’ with him. “I’m unattached,” Greg murmured. “I would very much like another drink with you. Where are you thinking about going?”

“Another dance and we can see where the night takes us?” Mycroft suggested with a grin. 

* * *

“I don’t normally do anything like this,” Mycroft murmured, grinning, as he ran his fingers through Greg’s hair. “I did not expect to see you at the club tonight.” 

Greg leaned back against the headboard and traced his fingers along with constellation like freckles on Mycroft’s arm. It was impossible not to smile back. He had the odd feeling that the earth had turned a certain way for them to meet up again. He did briefly wonder if it was fate. He had always been a bit of a romantic. 

“What would you have done if you didn’t see me then?” Greg asked with a grin. “Just listened to the music?”

Mycroft let out a chuckle and Greg couldn’t help but join in. “I suppose that I would have done that and gone to bed for ten. I did not plan to go out tonight.”

Greg stretched out on the bed and ran his hand along Mycroft’s thigh that was covered by the duvet, and pressed a kiss on the outside of his wrist. “You must have done something right for fate to bring us together and to spend the early hours of the morning getting shagged.”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust and rolled his eyes good naturally. “‘Shag,’ is such a common word, Gregory,” he lightly scolded. 

  
“You did say worse things earlier on,” Greg smirked. “I did not expect those words to come out of a mouth like yours. I didn’t think that posh boys even knew words like that.” 

“I’m full of surprises,” Mycroft grinned. “I suppose that this does make up for last year?”

Greg shrugged and played with Mycroft’s long fingers, he felt the need for a cigarette but he had finished off his box before he entered the club. “What even made you cancel? University deadlines?”

Mycroft worried his bottom lip between his teeth and shook his head, dismissing him. “Nothing for you to worry about. I doubt that you would understand.”

“What wouldn’t I-” 

He silenced off Greg’s question by crowding him against the headboard and kissed him, teasing. “I am just really glad that you were willing to forgive me and that you happened to be in the club tonight.”

He ran a long-fingered hand up Greg’s thigh and hummed into the kiss. Greg’s hands gravitated towards his arse. It was the lushest arse that he had ever seen on someone. Greg wondered if fate was doing him a favour tonight.   


  
“I’m very glad that decided to have a bit of fun and have a dance with me” Greg smirked. “You are very forgiven.”

Mycroft almost had a rather tender expression on his face and placed a hand on his cheek. Greg felt a jolt inside him almost as if the atoms in his body had been rearranged. It would have frightened him in any other situation. 

“Me too,” Mycroft murmured, “I rarely let myself have any fun.”

He let out an undignified squeak when Greg suddenly flipped him over onto his back. It broke into a breathy chuckle as Greg started to press kisses from the scattering of freckles on his nose and started to work his way down. 

It was a loud ringing of the phone that loudly taken Greg out of the moment that he was in. He had hoped that Mycroft was going to ignore it, but Mycroft had worked his way from under him and slipped a dressing gown on before Greg could hardly think about what planet he was on. 

He could hear Mycroft talk on the phone in a low and serious voice. He sighed several times and sounded so exhausted from what Greg could make out on the phone. 

  
Greg tried to position himself on the bed in a more dignified position when he walked back in. Mycroft looked as if he had aged several years in the two minutes that he had been on the phone and he started to flatten down his very ruffled hair. 

  
“Is everything alright?” Greg asked with a frown, he pushed back his fringe from where it had flopped down over one eye. 

Mycroft started to collect their clothes from the floor and organised their items into two piles in the bed. “You need to go, “ he murmured. “I am so sorry.”

Greg stood up from the bed and put on a clean pair of boxers that Mycroft had shoved in his direction. “Is your boyfriend coming home or something?” 

Mycroft looked up at him as if he had told a joke and let out a humourless chuckle. His posture was unnaturally stiff as if he was propped up to a metal pole. “That would be an easier situation to deal with.”

He started to pull on his clothes that managed to stay relatively crease-free despite being tossed on the floor earlier on. His eyes were calculating and he seemed to be lost in his own world as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“What’s happening then?” Greg asked, “You were fine a moment ago.”

“And I’m fine now,” Mycroft said briskly. “Thank you.”

“Are you seriously going to do this again?” Greg asked as he shoved the last pieces of clothing on. “I don’t mind you blowing me off once but twice.”

Mycroft sighed and sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. “This is not my own choice,” he murmured. “I have enjoyed the night we had but -”

“You don’t think it’s a good idea?” Greg answered for him, somewhat bitter. “Are you even going to call me ?”

Mycroft fastened up his trousers and sighed. “My situation would not allow me to have a relationship even if I wanted to. I do like you, Greg.”

The words fluttered in Greg’s stomach teasingly. He tried to not let himself get caught up in the moment as he knew that he would be severely disappointed. “What is the situation?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m a very good listener,” Greg countered. “I doubt that it is that bad.”

  
Mycroft seemed to consider it for a moment, the words ‘my brother,’ fell out of his mouth but he had quickly closed his mouth again and shook his head. “I had a really good night with you,” Mycroft tried to smile but it did not reach his eyes. “I think that in another world we could be very happy together but the timing isn’t there.”

“I could wait for you,” Greg replied. “I think you are just scared. You know that this a good thing that we’ve got going on and you are running away.”

“I thought that you were a police constable and not a psychologist,” Mycroft snapped before he apologised with a sigh. 

Greg shook his head and scolded himself for getting wrapped up with someone who had already ditched him before. He knew that things wouldn’t happen between him and Mycroft, they seemed to come into difficulty from the moment they met. He didn’t even know Mycroft’s name in the first night they met. 

“Your loss,” Greg shrugged as he shoved his jacket on. 

  
“This isn’t my choice,” Mycroft sighed. “My life is...complicated.”

“Isn’t life meant to be ?” Greg countered. “I think that you need to have a friend at least, someone who you could talk to.”

Mycroft seemed to consider it for a long moment and sighed. He reached out his wallet and pulled out some money and placed it in Greg’s pocket when he refused to take it. It made him feel rather cheap.

“It is for a taxi home,” Mycroft said. “I am truly sorry. I do like you and I cannot drag you into this mess.”

Greg pushed back his hair and sighed. “You can phone me if you want,” he said. “I think that you do need a friend...I’m willing to be that for you.”

Mycroft perched on the bed and looked rather small, the confidence that he had in the club seemed non-existent. He bent down and kissed him goodbye, he had the odd feeling that it would be the last time that he would see Mycroft.  


Greg straightened himself out and sighed. “I will see you around, yeah?” he murmured. 

It took all of Greg’s strength to leave Mycroft’s flat that evening. 

* * *

  
  


Mycroft didn’t know what inspired him to go to the club that night, he had never enjoyed clubs. He didn’t even really enjoy the music that was being played. 

A part of him hoped that he would have seen Greg. He had always kept an eye out for him on the rare occasion that he felt brave enough to venture down to Soho and when his burdens had lifted from his shoulders slightly. 

He hadn’t seen in Greg in a long time, he had assumed that he had managed to get himself a girlfriend or a boyfriend and it had put his days in the club to an end. He knew that there would be a snowflake’s chance in hell that something would happen between them. His happiness did not even have a priority in his own life. 

  
Mycroft tried to let himself enjoy the night, allow himself to get caught up in the music and forget about his own life for several hours. Each time he had walked into Soho, he always realised how much that he needed a night like this. 

One night where his biggest concern was about the music that they were playing in the club and what he was going to drink. A night where he did not have to be the adult that he pretended to be. 

A night where he could be himself for several hours and pretend to be somewhat ordinary, unburdened by the work on his desk and attempting to help his little brother who did not want to be helped or care for himself. A night away from parents who disapproved of him and were happily ignorant about what their youngest son got up to.

He needed a night away from that burden but he would snap back into reality the moment that his pager buzzed or if the phone rang.

He tried to enjoy the music, he normally would not care for _The Smiths_ in the real world, but right now, they were his favourite band. He never really understood the lyrics of ‘ _ Panic’ _ before in the real world, but tonight, they spoke to him.

He looked over at the dance floor and he felt his heart twinge and his stomach flutter at the sight of Greg dancing away without a care in the world. Mycroft had never cared much about dancing before but he found himself more willing to dance if Greg asked him to. 

Greg stopped dancing for a moment and grinned when he saw him, pushing his hair away from his eyes. He beckoned him over the to the bar as he danced. 

Mycroft thought for a long moment, finished off his drink and ran his hand through his hair before he made his way to the bar.    
  
How could he have refused? 

He knew that there was only so many chances in life he could take and he did know when it would end or have the opportunity to have a good time. Tonight almost felt limitless.   



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In June each year, Greg wore a pride flag pin on his jacket lapel. He much preferred the bisexual flag when it came out in the nineties, he rather liked the idea of bisexuality being coloured in shades of purple. It had always been his favourite colour and he much prefered it to his sexuality being described as the shades of the grey in between the black and white when it came to sexuality. He had the fondness of the gay pride flag, it always made him think of his carefree days where he wasn’t so jaded from the world and made questionable decisions. 

_London 2005_

Greg often wondered when he had gotten old or when the thick layer of cobwebs had weaved into his soul. He believed that age must have crept up on him when he was bent over a large pile of paperwork or once he had reached those adult milestones of getting married, getting a career for himself, and settling down.

He couldn’t understand how it had been so many years since his clubbing days, they felt like a distant memory. He could hardly believe that he used to stay up all night drinking and dancing when he was younger especially these days.

The years must have fallen through his fingers like grains of sand when he had been unaware of it, then suddenly he discovered that he had gotten grey hairs and somehow aged overnight as he looked in the mirror one morning.

He could remember those evenings that he spent in clubs and how they felt endless. He could remember the songs were played with great ease and the memories that were linked to them. He could remember how exciting life to feel and how the opportunities and chances that he could take felt limitless. The world felt like a good place at the time, he hadn’t had the chance to see how dark it could be at times or felt the harshness of reality.

He could remember telling his mates at three in the morning, considerably drunk, that he was never going to get old. That ageing was just something that happened to other people, boring people, and that he would somehow manage to avoid getting old. The only things that seemed to matter at the time were if the music was going to be good that night or if fate would help him find someone that night.

He liked to pretend that he never kept an eye out in that particular club for Mycroft each time he visited for about a year. He always found himself disappointed each time and ended going home with someone else.

After a few years, Greg had put those days behind him and he stopped going out clubbing. He had settled down with a misses that he didn’t like it when he smoked, how he liked to go out clubbing and hated the music that he liked.

He had been happy enough to put the ‘habits,’ that he had in the back of the wardrobe for her and change himself. He had even attempted to give up smoking and try vegetarianism in the attempt to please her, his attempts were short-lived. He had been utterly convinced that Karen was the one when they met and he had proposed by accident. She had missed her sister’s wedding due to the flu and he had tried to cheer her up and was forced into proposing by Karen as she was wrapped up in her dressing gown.

He couldn’t back out of the decision especially with how happy it made her. He felt that he was doing the right thing at the time, even if he did somewhat regret it these days.

He put all of the traces of his clubbing days in the cupboard and put away the free-spirited and openly bisexual man that he used to be in there as well. The only traces that he had of those days were the old jacket that he used to wear and a few photos of him in a gay bar or in a parade that he _‘accidentally stumbled into,’_ if anyone ever caught a glimpse of it.

It was more believable to tell them fabrication than the truth. He knew that no one would believe him if he told them that aspect of his life or how he used to go out clubbing. The junior officers were amazed each time that he mentioned that he saw a particular film at the cinema or he used to go out clubbing, one had commented that they didn’t think that night clubs existed in the sixties. Greg felt as if he had aged thirty years after that conversation.

It took him all of his strength to not roll his eyes at the young officers as they talked about the clubs in Soho that he used to visit. They always talked about them in whispers as if they expected him to have never heard of the concept of a gay bar before or that he would disapprove what they did in their personal life.

  
That bothered him more than he ever let on.

In June each year, Greg wore a pride flag pin on his jacket lapel. He much preferred the bisexual flag when it came out in the nineties, he rather liked the idea of bisexuality being coloured in shades of purple. It had always been his favourite colour and he much prefered it to his sexuality being described as the shades of the grey in between the black and white when it came to sexuality. He had the fondness of the gay pride flag, it always made him think of his carefree days where he wasn’t so jaded from the world and made questionable decisions.

He missed those days, he was considerably happier then and could be himself. He didn’t have to camouflage himself as being straight to avoid the grief from being queer in the workplace or avoid the fuss that came with it.

He knew that no one would believe him if he mentioned that he had boyfriends or he visited gay clubs almost every weekend in a past life. His parents had assumed it was a joke when he told them that he was bisexual. He had to deal with their questioning and they didn’t speak to him for about a month. He stopped telling people that he was bisexual after that, not wanting to have a repeat of the worst month of his life.

His parents were polite enough to Andy when he came over for dinner, his mum more so than his dad. It was clear that once he had broken up with Andy that his parents were overjoyed with the decision and that he had _stopped being so silly_ as his mum put it. They were thrilled when he told them that he proposed to Karen, his dad even made the effort to be polite to her and didn't take his dinner by the telly when she came over.

On the rare occasion that people noticed his pin, they just assumed that it was just to show his support as an ally and he was trying to make a more inclusive workplace. Sometimes a junior officer would smile at it, not because they found someone who fell under the same flag as them, but because their coworker was an ally.

When civil partnerships were made legal in 2004, it made Greg question his marriage. It made him think of Mycroft. He hadn’t thought about him in years but he came to mind once that headline was on the news.

He wondered if he would have gotten married to another man if he had the chance. He never really saw it an option before, it wasn't an option until a year ago. 

He had always leaned more towards men than women, he never told that to anyone. He had never been fifty-fifty when it came to who he fancied and he liked who he liked. 

He liked the way that men kissed, he liked how their arms would wrap around him protectively in bed, and how he connected with them emotionally on a level deeper than he did with some women.

He ended up going straight down the aisle with a woman despite everything. He had always liked women and it was easier to find a girlfriend. It pleased his parents. He was happy with Karen at the time, even if did somewhat regret the decision that he made in his twenties these days.

He wondered if Mycroft had possibly or would have gotten a civil partnership. That he had found someone and had settled down, that he had managed to work through the problem that he had all those years ago.

Right after that night, Greg did imagine a future with Mycroft for some time. He had often hoped that Mycroft would pick up the phone or they would lay eyes across the club at another again. He often wondered if Mycroft thought about him or at least that night they met.

Those nights felt electric and Greg felt truly alive no matter how much he tried to deny it. He rarely had evenings like that anymore, ones where anything felt possible and the chances that he had were endless.

He also knew that he would have waited for Mycroft without a second thought. He had always tended to get caught up in the moment. He fell hard and fast whenever there was a connection with someone and the day one magic of meeting someone was in full swing. 

He knew far too well that he would have waited for Mycroft even after two nights spent together. He hoped for far too long that fate would deal him a good hand allow him to see Mycroft again and hopefully allow them to make a go out of it.

It never did and Greg had managed to move on mostly, a small part of him clung onto that hope even though so many years had passed. 

* * *

Karen never liked it that he brought his work home with him and she always complained about it.

  
They had many rows about it in the past or when he stayed in office for too long. It was with the last row that they had that Karen decided to go and stay with her sister. Things had been rocky for some time and they slept in separate bedrooms after the last major argument. Greg had been too exhausted to argue back and he wasn’t going to let the kid go back on the streets and possibly ruin the progress he made.

He could understand why Karen wasn’t happy about Sherlock being in their flat especially after he had promised that he wouldn’t get so involved with his work. It was a cause of gossip for the neighbours. He had tried to get him in a shelter but Sherlock refused to go in one and had nowhere to go after a visit to a rehab facility. The parents weren’t interested in dealing with him and he refused to talk to his brother.

  
He had gotten bits and pieces of Sherlock’s life story from when he visited him almost every day in the rehab facility. He knew that getting involved with not the best idea but there was something about Sherlock that made it impossible not to. He was the kid’s only visitor. He knew that Sherlock needed a friend and he was willing to be it, even if Sherlock never got his name right.

  
  


Karen had never liked his involvement with Sherlock. She always complained when he visited Sherlock in rehab and made himself a phone call away. She never liked how Sherlock only cast a glance at her and gave a rendition of her life story and told him about her affair with a coworker.

She had screamed at him for that, Sherlock seemed rather amused by the whole incident and claimed that he was ‘only being helpful,’ before he started to flick through the tv channels, unaware of the damage he caused.

Greg had tried to get Sherlock to contact his family over the weeks that he stayed on his sofa with limited success. He had offered to phone on Sherlock’s behalf to let the family know that he was alright and that Sherlock could still stay with him until he had sorted himself out, but Sherlock had refused.

It was the brother that Sherlock complained about the most. Often referred to as the Mammoth along with other insults about his weight or his appearance, never by name. He referred to him as an arch enemy or some sorts and mentioned that it would only be a matter of time that he would be at the door looking for him.

Greg never put much thought into Sherlock’s comments, he had assumed that Sherlock was being overdramatic as usual. He had cultivated an image for himself that he was on the streets and he had always been slumming it until he mentioned one day that he went to Cambridge before he was kicked out and that his family had an estate.

  
He never put much thought into Sherlock’s comment about his brother, he had been far too occupied with the Chinese takeaway that he had ordered for dinner that evening for Sherlock and himself and the telly.

* * *

It was a knocking at the door in the early hours of the morning that dragged Greg from his bed. He had shouted for Sherlock to get the door from under the duvet and tried to go back to sleep.

He assumed that it was charity chuggers or Jehovah’s going around the flats again with how persistent the knocking had been. He always let Sherlock deal with them, he had been getting bothered less since Sherlock had started opening the door to them and frightening them away. It was almost like having a guard dog.

The door opened and Greg heard someone step into his flat. He could hear Sherlock talking to someone and it quickly turned into an argument.

With a sigh, Greg dragged himself out of bed once he realised that it would be impossible to sleep through that noise, regardless of how tired he was. He wrapped himself in his dressing gown and made his way into the kitchen, half-asleep.

The argument stopped as he walked into the room.

Greg opened his mouth and closed it again and suddenly wished that he was wearing more than his dressing gown.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” Greg managed to finally utter out, unsure if this was a dream or not.

Mycroft straightened up and opened and closed his mouth like goldfish. He tried to put on an air of dignity and grandeur once he realised that Sherlock was smirking at him, there was still the hint of surprise.

“I was coming to collect my brother, Lestrade,” Mycroft replied with a raised eyebrow. “I was wondering why you have gotten yourself involved with him or why you are not dressed at this hour of the morning.”

Greg tightened his dressing gown around himself. “It was Greg the last time that you saw me,” he said. “You didn’t mind too much about the state of dress I was in the last time we saw another if remember correctly.”

Sherlock suddenly went pale and quickly left the room, horrified at what he had just heard.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure what the best thing was to say. “I think that you could do with a friend,” he said simply. 
> 
> “I did not want you to be dragged into this situation all these years ago and nothing has changed.”
> 
> “I can’t not get involved,” Greg shrugged, “I have had your brother on my sofa for weeks and I ended up visiting him when I could.”

It was through hawkish eyes that Mycroft looked at him, his gaze attempted to be piercing and intimidating but it seemed to be lacking. He did not say anything and instead seemed to be rather intrested in looking at anything other than him. 

Greg felt rather underdressed, standing in the middle of his living room in just his pyjamas and dressing gown compared to Mycroft’s three-piece suit. Years ago, he had put thought about what it would be like when or even if he laid eyes on Mycroft Holmes. He had imagined that it wouldn’t be like this. 

In another world, Greg would have found himself thrilled to see Mycroft again. In another world, the circumstances would have been much better and he would not be wanting more than for the ground to swallow him up. He had the feeling that Mycroft had a similar feeling, he tried to look intimating and unphased by the situation, but his gaze was diving. 

“How are you?” Greg offered weakly. “It has been a while…”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and did not attempt to dignify him with an answer. He looked as if he wished to be anywhere else other than in his flat. Greg also wished that anywhere other than his flat and if he knew what to say to someone he hadn’t seen in over a decade. 

Mycroft started to gather up the few belongings that Sherlock had scattered around the living room, folding up the shirts that were in puddles on the floor. “I shall take my brother off your hands and I will be out of your hair in no time,” he said. 

“So is Sherlock the reason why things ended the way that they did?” Greg asked after several long minutes that dragged on painfully slow.

Mycroft stopped fiddling around with Sherlock’s clothing as soon as the words came out of Greg’s mouth. He suddenly looked older than his years, like that what he had done during the last night they met. The suits betrayed him and instead of making him look as powerful as he did before, he looked vulnerable. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again. 

  
“Do you happen to have a plastic bag for my brother’s belongings?” he uttered out. 

Greg nodded stiffly and went to the kitchen. He rummaged around in the drawer for a plastic bag before finding one that once held an Indian takeaway the week before. “You know that I would have understood if you told me the truth,” Greg said, handing him the bag. 

“You would not have understood, “ Mycroft replied with a bitter laugh, “I was not willing to drag you into my mess. I hardly knew you!”

Greg folded his arms across his chest and sighed. “I still would have been able to do something even if you just wanted someone to chat to,” he said. 

Mycroft avoided looking at him and placed Sherlock’s clothing in the bag. He seemed fascinated by the wedding photo that was on top of the mantlepiece. “You got married,” Mycroft said quietly. 

“What did you think that I would do?” Greg asked. “Go to that club in Soho in the hopes that I’d see you? It’s been years, Mycroft.” He tried to swallow down the bitter knowledge that he had done that for some time. 

Mycroft shook his head, straightened his tie, and smoothed down his trousers. “I was only making an observation.”

“What about you?” Greg asked, nodding at the gold band on Mycroft’s finger. “When did you get...civilly partnered?”

Mycroft let out an undignified snort at his word, it momentarily cut through the tense atmosphere that had settled thickly in the living room since he had opened up the word. “I’d thought that you would have grown out of that?” Mycroft said. His voice fond and slightly rougher around the edges and sounding like what he had done all those years ago, momentarily dropping his cultured and clipped accent. “You did that on the phone all the time, if you didn’t know a word for something, you would make one up.”

“I am surprised that you still remember that,” Greg chuckled lightly. “I was convinced that you would have forgotten about me.”

“I’m embarrassed to admit,” he said in a low voice, rather strained and tight, “going to the club was some of the best evenings I ever had.”

“Must have been the music,” Greg said with a smirk. “It was much better then than what it is now.” 

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth twitched upwards momentarily at the old joke between them, almost as if they were friends. The expression caused an odd feeling in Greg’s stomach, stirring something up that he had not felt in years. It had been years at yet Mycroft still had that effect on him. 

As Mycroft put Sherlock’s clothes in the plastic bag, Greg allowed himself to admire him discreetly. He felt somewhat guilty for letting his eyes gaze on Mycroft’s backside longer than he should have or those legs that went for days. He knew that his younger self seeing Mycroft in a suit would not even be able to put two thoughts together upon seeing him. 

Greg shook his head and pushed the thought out of his mind, he was a married man even if unhappily. 

It was Sherlock’s appearance in the living room that brought Greg back to reality, he was the reason that Mycroft was here after all. Mycroft suddenly aged once more and lost the soft smile that had crept upon his face, he wrinkled his nose in disgust as Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa and made no attempt to move or put his things away. 

“I am not going with you,” Sherlock said definitely. “I’m staying here.” 

“ Mummy will be rather ups-” Mycroft said before Sherlock cut him off mid-sentence. 

“I doubt that you would be willing to upset her when she is on her line dancing holiday,” Sherlock said sounding much more like a teenager than someone who has in his twenties. “Is she even speaking to you these days? I do recall that the fight you and her had in October of 1988 was rather nasty, you stopped coming home for the weekends after it and you missed Christmas.”

Greg watched the two brothers interact for several minutes. The two of them seemed to forget that he was in even in the room. They talked quickly and quietly among themselves, Greg was sure that at one point, they had started to speak French. 

It was difficult to believe that the two were related, the only similarities that they seemed to have were that both were thin as laths, Mycroft being slightly softer around the middle and the same piercing eyes. Sherlock wore clothes that were rummaged from the back of his wardrobe when he first moved in and looked and acted like an overgrown teenager. Mycroft looked as if he had a steel pole holding him up and looked unnaturally stiff with his false air of grandeur that had faltered several times since he had arrived in the flat. 

Greg moved from where he had been leaning on the wall to watch the two brothers squabble among themselves for several minutes. He could pick up the odd word or two but did not want to intrude too much even though they were in his flat and he wanted to ask a lot of questions. 

Greg cleared his throat. “Sherlock can stay here if he wants to,” he said. “I don’t mind in the slightest.”

“Wouldn’t your wife mind?” Mycroft asked. “Has Sherlock told you that she is currently involved with someone else and I can tell from your flat that the two of you will be separating permanently before long.”

  
“Six months,” Sherlock chimed in form the sofa. “I'd put money on it."  


“How on earth?” Greg exclaimed. “I know that Sherlock can do that  _ thing  _ but you.”

“Family talent,” Mycroft said, amused. “I was the one who taught him.” 

In any other situation, Greg would have found himself impressed with Mycroft doing that  _ deduction thing _ that Sherlock did, but he did not like it when he was on the receiving end of it. He did wonder what on earth what Mycroft could tell just from looking at him or if he used it back in the club all of those years ago. 

“I have managed to get you lodgings in Monteque Street,” Mycroft said to his brother. “We do need to have a lengthy discussion, I do believe.” 

Sherlock looked unconvinced and did not move from the sofa. “I have also managed to pull some strings and allowed you to get access to a lab for those ghastly experiments of yours,” Mycroft said with a heavy sigh, pinching his nose. 

Sherlock considered what his brother said with great thought before he gave a single nod and stood up. He went into the kitchen and took out several of Karen’s best Tupperware boxes that were filled with an experiment or two that he was working on. Karen had complained about insects being in her best Tupperware but Greg could not bring himself to care about it. He followed the philosophy of blissful ignorance of what was in those boxes as long as he did not have to clean it up or see it. 

“You can keep those boxes, mate,” Greg said as Sherlock wordlessly left the flat. They were unusable after what Sherlock had been using them for, not that Karen actually used those boxes in the years she had them. 

Mycroft awkwardly shuffled on his feet once the door to the flat had been slammed closed. He looked as if he wished to be anywhere else than in his living room. “I should be thanking you for taking care of my brother.” 

“Why didn’t you get involved beforehand?” Greg asked. “He was in rehab before he was living here. He stumbled on a crime scene as high as a kite and helped solve the thing, and he’s been stuck with me ever since.”

The air in Mycroft’s chest left and he seemed to slump into himself. The exhaustion radiated off him. Without a hint of hesitation, Greg reached over and placed his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. “He refused to see me after the second stint in rehab...You cannot force someone to see you if they do not want you. I kept close tabs on him and made sure that he was not in trouble.”

Mycroft did not say anything for a long moment and seemed to be more interested in his shoes. “I did tell you that my situation was complicated,” he sighed. 

Greg opened his mouth and closed it again, not sure what the best thing was to say. “I think that you could do with a friend,” he said simply. 

“I did not want you to be dragged into this situation all these years ago and nothing has changed.”

“I can’t not get involved,” Greg shrugged, “I have had your brother on my sofa for weeks and I ended up visiting him when I could.”

“You are too kind to a fault.”

“I just thought that everyone could do with a friend,” Greg shrugged. “It is just easier to be kind, the world is a horrible enough already.”

“I do wish that I knew how to thank you,” Mycroft said after several long moments, fiddling around with a cufflink. “You have given my brother more kindness more than anyone else has given him.”

Greg cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his dressing gown pocket. “I think that there is a lot for us to talk about,” he said. “Your brother, of course.”

“How about we can discuss things over some dinner?” Mycroft suggested awkwardly. “...Your wife is free to attend, of course. ”

Without even a moment of hesitation, Greg nodded and accepted the offer. He attempted to hide his enthusiasm, his younger self momentarily made an appearance before he pushed him back away. “That would be lovely,” he said, clearing his throat. 

“I should go,” Mycroft awkwardly said. He picked up the plastic bag of Sherlock’s clothes and passed Greg a business card. “This is my private number.”   
  
Greg nodded and placed the card in his dressing gown pocket. “I’ll call.”

The two of them stood awkwardly by the door for a long moment, shuffling awkwardly. Greg suddenly worried that he did not know what he should do with his hands. 

  
“I do wish that we met in better circumstances,” Mycroft eventually said. “I thought that if I saw you again, it would not be like this.”

“Life just has a funny way of putting people together,” Greg said with a shrug. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wanted to make a proposition,” Mycroft said once the plates from the starters had been cleared away. He took a long sip of wine as if he needed it for courage. 
> 
> “What sort of proposition?” 
> 
> Mycroft took another sip of wine and placed the glass down on the table. He did not speak for a long moment. He seemed to have aged within seconds. “It is to do with my brother,” he said. “I do worry about him...immensely.”

it was just a simple phone call that summoned Greg from his office and into the black car that was parked out New Scotland Yard. 

Without a moment of hesitation, Greg left his office and slipped into the backseat. He had been expecting this. 

“I hope that you do not mind me picking you up from the office,” said Mycroft from the back seat of the car. “We can always stop at your flat and you can change if required...How is your wife? Will she be attending? I did book for a table for three just in case.” 

Greg shook his head and put on his seatbelt. He placed his rucksack in the middle seat between him and Mycroft as if that would create enough distance between them. He had been looking forward to this dinner too much and it concerned him. He was a married man after all. 

It was just two men. Just two old friends who were going to dinner. It was hardly anything special about it. There was little reason to even be somewhat excited about the prospect of it. It was just to talk about Sherlock. 

It wasn’t as if something was going to happen. He was a married man and for all he knew, Mycroft was with someone. No matter how many times Greg had told himself that he had moved on from those two nights in his twenties, he was convinced that a part of him still lingered on them. 

  
It was ridiculous, he hardly knew anything about Mycroft. He was practically a stranger. They had met in person twice and they didn’t exactly talk about their family or career ambitions when they were in Mycroft’s bed together all those years ago. They chatted on the phone for a bit back then, but things had changed massively between them. 

It was hardly chatting to another back then, it was more shamelessly flirting with another. 

“We can just go for dinner now,” Greg said. “It’s just me, I’m afraid. Is it just you?”

“Who else would I be going to dinner with?” Mycroft asked with a raised eyebrow. 

“Your partner?” Greg asked, nodding towards the ring on Mycroft’s finger. 

“I’m not involved with anyone,” Mycroft said, amusement in his voice. “I do wonder why you are interested in why I have a partner.”

  
“No reason at all…”    
  


Greg shifted his eyes to look at the back of the driver’s head. The space between them felt increasingly small and Greg felt the sudden need to get out of the car. He wondered if agreeing to go to dinner with Mycroft was not the best idea.

Mycroft had been on his mind recently and he had started to crop up when Greg had least expected it. It had been years since he had even thought about him or any man in that nature. He wondered if it was repressed memories from his youth and seeing Mycroft in a suit after all of those years activated something in his brain. 

  
He tried to brush it off as quickly as those thoughts entered his brain and his shower. He tried to put it down to not being with a man in years or not thinking about men in that nature in a very long time. Karen would always start an argument if she even caught him glancing at another woman, he would never hear the end of it if he looked at a man for longer than he was meant to. 

He put it down to not being happy in his marriage. He and Karen were having a rough patch and his mind wandered away from him occasionally. It’s not like he ever spent a second wondering if things would be much better if he was with a bloke. It was always so much easier with them after all. 

“How are you?” Greg managed to utter out once he had realised that he had not said anything in several long minutes. “You look great. The tie is...great.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again, carefully selecting the words. Greg could practically hear the cogs turn in his head. He suddenly wished that he had decided to go home and changed once he had noticed the coffee stain on his tie. 

“You have aged well…” Mycroft finally managed to utter out. 

“I’ve gone grey,” Greg replied. “It’s awful. I should probably dye it or something. I never had the time to sit down, not with your brother around anyway. “

“You do not need to do that,” Mycroft said quickly before he pretended to clear his throat. “It just suits you.”

Greg swallowed hard and counted to ten in his head. It felt almost wrong that Mycroft complimenting his appearance had an impact on him. He couldn’t remember the last time that he had been complimented. The last compliment that he had received stuck around him for months when an old woman on the tube told him that he had kind looking eyes. 

“I hope that you do not mind French restaurants,” Mycroft said, fiddling with his cufflink. “The restaurant where we are going has the most divine dessert menu. The head chef is an old friend of mine.”

Greg shifted in his seat awkwardly. “That sounds great,” he said. “It’s probably much fancier than where I usually end up going for dinner. “

“It is a shame that your wife is not able to attend,” Mycroft said, even if he did look somewhat pleased about the matter. “I am sure that we will do marvellously...the two of us.”

“How is Sherlock doing?” Greg asked quickly to prevent silence from filling the back of the car. “I’ve not heard from him in a few days.” 

Mycroft seemed to shrink in his chair for a moment and Greg could not identify the expression on his face. He quickly slipped the mask back on and ignored the concerned look that Greg gave him. “He is fine,” he said firmly. “We are needing to discuss my brother, I would rather do it over dinner.”

__________________

“I wanted to make a proposition,” Mycroft said once the plates from the starters had been cleared away. He took a long sip of wine as if he needed it for courage. 

“What sort of proposition?” 

Mycroft took another sip of wine and placed the glass down on the table. He did not speak for a long moment. He seemed to have aged within seconds. “It is to do with my brother,” he said. “I do worry about him...immensely.” 

“He is going to stay clean,” Greg said. 

  
“He has been in treatment before and knowing the nature of my brother.” It was nearly impossible to hear Mycroft, his voice tight and barely above a whisper. “There is a good chance that this will not be his last.” 

Without even thinking, Greg reached across the table and grabbed Mycroft’s hand, he gave it a tight squeeze. There was a jolt that ran through him, it was completely inappropriate and he scolded himself but he did not let go of his hand. 

“Hey,” Greg said. “You don’t know that. He is going to be fine.” 

Mycroft’s chest seemed to deflate and he shrunk in his chair. He just looked older than his years and just looked so exhausted. “You can hardly predict the future” he murmured. “This is why I wanted to make a proposition with you.”

“What sort of proposition?” Greg asked after several long moments. 

Mycroft reluctantly straightened up in his chair and fiddled with his cufflinks. “My brother needs to keep his mind occupied. It is...dangerous when his mind is unoccupied.” 

“Can’t he just do his experiments?” Greg asked. “That is what he usually got up to when he was bored in my flat.”

“That won’t be enough,” Mycroft replied. “Trust me, I know far too well.”

“What are you suggesting?” Greg asked. 

It was with reluctance that Mycroft removed his hand from his own. Greg briefly wondered if he felt the same jolt of electricity that ran through him as he touched Mycroft’s hand. He tried to not to get too hopeful about that thought. 

“Murders,” Mycroft said, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Crimes in general, actually. They are on the only thing that keeps his mind occupied enough.”

Greg opened up his mouth and Mycroft cut him off before he could speak. “I know that this is an unconventional proposition,” he said. “I can assure you that my brother will be an asset to you. I can pull some strings.”

“What do you even work as?” Greg asked. the question felt somewhat redundant. 

“A minor position in the Department of Transport,” Mycroft said without any hesitation. 

  
Greg had the feeling that Mycroft’s job was more than a minor position in the Department of Transport. He had the feeling that Mycroft wouldn’t be able to say much about his job and that there was a high level of confidentiality that came with his position. 

“I don’t know if I would be able to allow your brother to-”

Mycroft seemed to deflate once more. “Greg...I know that this unconventional.” 

“I could get into trouble-” 

Mycroft fiddled with his cufflinks once more. “Greg...I would not be asking this normally,” he said, his voice hardly a whisper. “I am afraid that I do not have any other options...I cannot lose my brother. I have been trying my best with my brother for years...I’m afraid that I might not have any more options.” 

He seemed pained as he spoke and he just looked so exhausted. His hand somehow managed to wind itself around Mycroft’s once again. He held onto it as if it was the only thing that kept him on this world and stopped him being swept up in the chaos of Sherlock Holmes. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Greg said with a heavy sigh. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered with a final squeeze of his hand. 

He only removed the vice-like grip on Greg’s hand once the waitress brought the main course to the table. 

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'That is why I had to leave that night,” Greg stated quietly, knowing the answer. “That phone call was your brother.”
> 
> Mycroft nodded stiffly. “One phone call is all that takes,” he said. “ It is part of our agreement. I will always find him, whatever alley or doss house he is in, no matter how much trouble that he has gotten himself in.” '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't plan to write another chapter for this so soon, I hope that you don't mind! I felt the need for a bit of a Mycroft centric chapter. The second half takes place a year after the last chapter.

_ 1989 _

Mycroft picked up the phone from the receiver and put back for the third time. His fingers hovered over the buttons teasingly, occasionally he would rest a finger lightly on one, quickly removing it as soon as possible as if it was hot. 

He managed to drag himself away from the phone with great reluctance. He had been wasting far too much time by the hospital phone, thankfully there hadn’t been anyone else who needed to use it. 

He scolded himself for finding it so difficult to make a phone call. He could hardly pick up the receiver and put ten pence into the phone without feeling as if he had come face to face with a lion. He hardly knew what he was going to say or why he even wanted, needed, to speak to someone.

He knew that Greg probably would not want to hear from him after what happened in his flat. It did not stop Mycroft wanting to talk to him. There was no one else that he could talk to. He needed to be strong for his brother or at least be able to pretend that he was not scared. He felt the need for a proper adult to deal with this situation, he didn’t feel grown-up enough to deal with it, no matter how much he pretended he was. 

He wanted to call his mother, she used to make him feel better when he used to get so anxious or worried about things. She used to be kind and warm back then before everything went pearshaped. He knew that she wouldn’t want to talk to him, not after that nasty fight they had over dinner and how she told him to leave. It had been a year and the rejection still stung horribly. She wasn’t qualified enough to deal with the situation, she hardly cared that Sherlock ended up in the hospital or frequently disappeared for days at a time, and was always more concerned about frivolous matters rather than what her youngest son got up to. Father was just not interested and paid much more attention to his office than he ever did his family. 

Mycroft dragged himself away from the phone and took himself to the canteen. He didn’t need to eat the Mars bar and he scolded himself for doing so. The sugary tea he drank warmed him up, the sensation settled in his chest and almost felt like a hug. The warmth seeping into his bones and his hollow chest. 

Several hours ago, Mcroft felt a warmth in his chest that he had not experienced before. He was fairly certain that he actually felt happy in those few precious hours. He allowed himself to feel free and experience happiness. It had been years since he had done that. 

He could hardly believed that he danced in a club or that he had bought someone to his flat. He could still hardly believed that he had impulsivly kissed Greg in the street last year, he was practiacally a stranger.

Normally, he would have never allowed himself to do anything impulsive. He would never allow himself to go to a club on a Saturday night. He normally would never allow himself to drink more than a glass of wine with a meal. He certainly would never kiss a stranger, he hardly had the confidence to speak to someone who he found attractive, let alone invite them to his flat. 

It was impulsive, stupid, and somewhat brilliant. It was the most thrilling time in his life since he was Lady Bracknell in the university drama society. He liked to imagine that Sherlock was secretly impressed with his performance, he was the only member of the family to attend and he did not start acting up when he was bored. 

Mycroft thought about calling Greg once more. It would be easy enough to do, there was a phone by the entrance on the canteen and he knew the number off by heart. He just needed to talk to someone. He needed to talk to Greg. 

He hardly knew what he would even say or if he could even talk about his situation. He doubted that anyone would understand. It was difficult enough to even think about it at times and it was much easier to keep it hidden. He hated to think about what his colleagues at work would think of him if he was truthful about why he looked so tired and stressed at times or why he had to dash out of the office after a phone call on occasion. 

He knew that they would think poorly of him if they found out. Greg most undoubtedly would once he got a hint of why he had to cancel their date last year or why he had to send him away tonight. 

Phoning Greg felt too much like a risk for Mycroft’s liking. 

Sherlock was his own problem and he had to deal with it on his own. It was the way that things had to be.

* * *

_2006_

Greg was not sure when or why he had grabbed Mycroft’s hand. He could not understand why it felt so difficult to let go. He had expected Mycroft to shake off his hand once he had first grabbed it, his body language when he walked into Sherlock’s hospital room scream ‘leave me alone.’ 

Much to Greg’s surprise, Mycroft never brushed off his hand and allowed Greg to rest his hand on top of his. It was a small gesture but it hopefully provided some sort of comfort. It was the most that Mycroft allowed himself to accept. He had tried to comfort Mycroft with his words before but it was awkward and stunted. Mycroft preferred to be alone with his thoughts in times like this. 

  
  


Greg could tell that he was worried even if Mycroft pretended to act unconcerned about the matter, almost bored with it. Greg knew that he was pretending, he had always been able to tell when people were hiding something or holding back. He had always been able to read people like that and he knew that it bothered Mycroft that he could. 

They had been in this situation together several times before over the last year and they would probably be in it again. It never got easier no matter how many times he sat in that uncomfortable plastic chair and waited. Greg hated the waiting. It was the most difficult part of the situation. 

“You should go home and get some rest,” Greg said. “I’ll take over.” 

Mycroft shifted in his seat and blinked, he looked older than his years and exhausted. Greg repeated what he said and Mycroft shook his head in response. “You should go home,” he murmured. “Your wife will be wanting you at home. I know that you have been here the moment that you left your office.”

Greg sighed and scrubbed a tired hand over his face. “I would rather wait...if that is alright with you?” he asked. “I should have kept a closer eye on him...Six months of progress down the drain.”

“He is an addict,” Mycroft said, cooly. “There is always the chance that he is going to...fall off the wagon. He thinks that he is so clever and that he can manage it. He has spent hours calculating the doses that he can take and he makes a list. He is rather good at hiding his  _ habit _ .”

“I should have paid more attention,” Greg said through gritted teeth. “I should have checked up on him more often and gone through his flat. I should have done more.”   
  


“It never gets easier,” Mycroft uttered, fiddling with his cufflink with his eyes glued to the hospital bed. “I am sorry that you found him in this state. You should not feel guilty. I do understand if this is too much to deal with. I cannot blame you if you need to step away from this situation.”

“How long have you been dealing with this?” Greg asked, breaking the heavy silence that had grown between them. 

Mycroft did not say anything for a long moment and looked as if he wished to be anywhere else than in Sherlock’s hospital room. Greg squeezed his hand tightly in the attempt to comfort him as much as Mycroft would allow. 

“The drug addiction?” Mycroft said, his voice tight and barely above a whisper. “I have been dealing with it since I was in university. I had to step in when I was much younger. Sherlock always got himself into trouble. He would go missing for days. He would frequently miss school or get himself expelled. Dangerous experiments and stealing from our father’s drinks cabinet.”

“That is why I had to leave that night,” Greg stated quietly, knowing the answer. “That phone call was your brother.”

Mycroft nodded stiffly. “One phone call is all that takes,” he said. “ It is part of our agreement. I will always find him, whatever alley or doss house he is in, no matter how much trouble that he has gotten himself in.”

“You are a good brother,” Greg said much to Mycroft’s disbelief. “He is lucky to have you.”

He tried to give Mycroft a reassuring smile but he had the feeling that it did not reach his eyes. “He is going to beat it this time,” he said, mostly to reassure himself. “You aren’t dealing with this on your own anymore. The moment that he goes missing or you need to talk about Sherlock...or just anything, I am going to be there.”

Mycroft nodded and sighed, he slumped slightly in his chair and allowed the exhaustion to crash over him momentarily. “Why don’t we get a cup of tea?” he said. “It will do you of a world of good to have five minutes away from this room.”

Much to Greg’s surprise, Mycroft accepted his offer and stood up from the hospital chair. He straightened up his tie and smoothed out the imaginary wrinkles from his trousers. Greg practically guided him to the hospital canteen and paid for two takeaway of tea and a packet of shortbread biscuits. 

He sat down on the table and started to fiddle with the sugar packets that were on the table. “Do you take sugar?” he asked. 

He was sure that Mycroft was capable of putting sugar in his tea but he needed to keep his hands busy and to feel useful. “Two please,” Mycroft murmured, wrinkling his nose in disgust as Greg put in four sugars in his tea. “Do you not like the taste of tea?” he asked, somewhat amused. 

“Not particularly,” Greg replied. “Hospital coffee is awful though. Tea is a lot more comforting, I like the warm feeling that lingers in your middle when you drink it. It always makes things feel better, even if just for a moment. I know that it’s daft.”

“It’s not silly in the slightest,” Mycroft said quietly, the corner of his mouth twitched upwards momentarily. “That is what my Uncle Rudy used to say...I do drink a lot of tea for that reason.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Greg tried to joke with little effect. “I’ll keep it to my grave, like how I know that you put on an accent a bit.”

“I do not put on my accent, “ Mycroft replied, the life coming back to him for a moment, his accent slightly rougher than it was normally. “You probably could not hear me properly over the music in the club.” 

Greg let out an undignified snort that felt inappropriate for the situation they were in. “That is the most terrible excuse,” he said. “ Those days feel so far away, I can hardly imagine you in a club these days.”   
  
“I stopped going once I left university and got a more demanding job,” Mycroft said. 

Greg had the feeling that Sherlock was one of the reasons that Mycroft stopped going to the clubs He knew that Mycroft would hardly allow himself to have an evening off especially when looking after Sherlock was a full-time job. 

“I stopped going once I met Karen,” Greg said to fill in the silence between them. “She never liked clubbing that much. I had joined the police not long after and she was doing her teaching course, barely had a moment to do something like that.”

“How long have you been together?” Mycroft asked politely. 

G reg thought for a moment and counted the years on his fingers. He had met her not long after his break up with Andy, that relationship had ended disastrously. “Eight years in June.”

Mycroft nodded and fiddled with the cardboard sleeve of his takeaway cup. “Are things still not good?” he asked. “I do recall the last time we spoke that you mentioned that she was still away with her sister.”

Greg sighed and ran his fingers through his hair and nodded. “Not the best,” he said simply. 

“What about you?” He asked, biting his lip. “How is Colin?”

Mycroft opened up his mouth, closed it again and did not say anything for a long moment. “Colin and I...are no longer together.”

Greg tried not to feel pleased about that situation, it was highly inappropriate. He had met Colin once when Mycroft had invited him round to his flat for some files and to discuss Sherlock. An informal catch up of some sort. He thought Colin was a posh snob who looked down his nose at him, looking as if he had smelt something awful. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Greg said. 

“There is no reason to be,” Mycroft replied. “He did not understand my situation and he was...unfaithful.” 

Greg felt the sting of pain that he was in Mycroft’s voice as he uttered that last word. He had been feeling it often recently with his marriage. He knew that he would have to say something to Karen eventually. It was an open secret these days and there was an evergrowing elephant in thier living room whose trunk Greg kept tripping over. 

“You deserve someone much better,” he said. “You come across a few frogs until you find someone who is right for you.”

“I might have already lost my chance of that years ago,” Mycroft murmured. 

He stood up with hismug of tea in hand. “I should head back,” he said. “I fear that my brother may be causing some havoc and upsetting the nurses.”   
  


Greg stood up and sat back down once Mycroft shook his head. “You should go home, Greg,” he said with a ghost of a smile. “ You look exhausted. You can visit Sherlock in the morning...Thank you for finding him.”   
  


Greg nodded somewhat redundantly. “It’s no problem...he needs a few good mates,” he said. “He is going to beat this. He’s got the two of us.” 

“I do wish that I had your confidence,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “ Good evening, Greg.”   
  


He left without a moment of hesitation leaving Greg alone with his thoughts in the hospital canteen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and the support for this story, it means the world to me!
> 
> I am taking a week or two off from updating this story, an unofficial break of some sort, due to the loss of a family member. I promise to update soon and I won't keep you waiting for too long. I do apologise.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dinner is going to be ready for eight, “ Greg stated once he had approached the door, he had the feeling that he had overstayed his welcome. “I trust that you know the address. You do not need to bring wine or anything. I look forward to seeing you.”

_1990_

Mycroft knew that it was completely irresponsible to be out that night. He had work first thing in the morning and he had an important meeting first thing. He wasn’t setting a good example if he was going out to a club right after his visit to Sherlock in the psychiatric ward that afternoon.

Mycroft had little understood why he felt the sudden need to go to a club. He had not been to one since last year and hardly had a spare moment in his life to even go to one for a drink. His job kept him chained to his desk for all hours of the day. It did not help that he needed every penny that he could earn to keep him afloat in London. The city was ridiculously expensive and difficult to get by in comfortably without his parent’s money. 

The extra money that he had gone towards his brother’s treatment. He had happily paid out of pocket for therapists and programs in the hopes that it would work, that he would manage to somehow kick the habit completely. He knew that was a ridiculous thought but Mycroft needed something to believe in occasionally. 

He just needed one night to himself. He would allow himself to have an hour or two at the most and then he would go back home. He just needed to sit in a room with loud music and a drink and hope that he would be able to drone out his concerns for his brother for a short amount of time. He would temporarily free from his burdens and he could pretend to be ordinary for a couple of hours before he had to go back to the real world. 

He doubted that he would bring someone home with him and he would not allow himself to drink too much, it would be far too irresponsible. 

There was one person that he had hoped to see that evening. Mycroft doubted that he would see him or that Greg would even want to see him, not after what happened last time. 

He had once summoned up the courage to dial the number on the phone but he hung up right after. It was a moment of weakness, he been on his own and Sherlock had ended up in the intensive care unit. The doctors did not think that he was going to make it at the time. He had been so scared and he just needed to talk to someone, he wanted to talk to Greg. He was alone in the hospital and Uncle Rudy had not arrived yet. 

He hardly knew how to explain his situation to Greg or if he would be able to tell him anything. He just knew that he wanted to talk to Greg even just for five minutes in the attempt to combat the increasing feeling of fear and how alone he felt. 

Mycroft paid his admission into the club and found a quiet corner by the bar and ordered himself a drink. He allowed himself to admire a tall man with dark hair and with a charming grin, his type. He never usually allowed himself to indulge in habits such as this, if any knowledge about his personal life slipped out, it would surely hinder his career and exclude him from the old boys club that he reluctantly had to join. 

Mycroft soon lost interest in the man that he had been admiring, as there. Right there. He could see the person that he had secretly been hoping that he would see that night. 

The dark fringe, that grin, and that dancing made it impossible for Mycroft not to notice him. It was as if Greg had been there waiting for him the whole time. As if he knew that he was meant to be at that particular club on that night.

Mycroft tried to fight the surge of nerves and anticipation that ran through his stomach. He had little idea about what he was meant to say to Greg. He supposed that a simple _‘hello_ ,’ would suffice. It would be a start and then he could figure out what other words he was meant to say later on. 

Mycroft smoothed down his hair and fiddled with the buttons on his shirt. He patted down his hands down his trouser legs in the search for his wallet, he would have order Greg a drink at least. It would break the ice between them and hopefully, things would progress from there. 

He found himself unable to go to the dance floor and talk to Greg. It seemed impossible to summon up any courage. Mycroft was not sure if he had managed to drain out all of his resources when he had to pretend to be brave when it came to Sherlock. 

  
He tried to make eye contact with Greg from across the bar and went undetected. Greg had been far too caught up in dancing to the Human League to even notice him. 

There was someone who approached Greg when he was on the dance floor. A familiar hand was placed on his back alerted Greg’s attention. He momentarily stopped dancing and there was a large grin on his face.

For a brief second, Mycroft allowed himself to hope that the grin was directed at him. He knew that it wasn’t and it was directed at the man who approached him. He could not bring himself to look away as he watched Greg throw his arms around the other man and kiss him.

He wondered why he was even that surprised with the sight. It had been a year since he had last seen Greg and he had hadn’t been able to summon up the courage to pick up the phone. He had moved on. 

Mycroft knew that he was foolish for hoping that Greg and himself could pick up the pieces from a year ago. 

Mycroft knew that he should have done so as well. He had blown his chance last year. He wanted to go over the bar and at least attempt to explain to Greg about what happened, about Sherlock. It would hopefully put that part of his life to rest and he would know not to err when it came to anyone else. 

Mycroft tried to summon up the words that he wanted to say in his head but nothing came to mind. His mind was uncharacteristically empty with a thousand thoughts that he could not string together, every single one scattered in his brain. He quickly left the club, stumbling slightly as he fought his way to the door before Greg could even notice him. 

* * *

_2006_

It was the silence of the Diogenes Club that Greg hated the most. He wanted nothing more than to smash one of the decorative plates on the wall or tip over one of the tea-trolleys. He wanted to shout or even just speak, that alone would bother the old codgers who sat there with their newspapers and looked horrified when he walked into the building.

Greg felt as if he had been sent to the headmaster as he waited for Mycroft to be ready to see him. He was given an old-looking wooden chair that was a far cry from the plush armchairs that the members of the club sat on. Greg shifted in the chair every few moments in the attempt to get comfortable and fiddled with his jacket.

He stood up once the door to the _‘Strangers Room_ ,’ was opened by Mycroft, who looked considerably rumbled and with bags under his eyes. “I do apologise to keep you waiting,” he said with an attempt of a smile that did not reach his eyes. “You may feel free to sit down.”

Greg nodded, unsure if he was allowed to talk in this room of the club. He had been given a dirty look by several members of the club when he had arrived and asked for Mycroft at the front desk. He sat down in a slightly more comfortable chair than before on the other side of a large antique desk. 

“Would you care for a drink?” Mycroft asked, holding up a crystal decanter that was on a small wooden side table in the corner of the room. “It is a single malt from Arran, aged twelve years. I much prefer the fifteen-year one, admittedly.”

“You are allowed to speak,” Mycroft said, sounding somewhat amused at the lack of response from him. 

  
Greg awkwardly got up from the chair and shoved his hands in his pockets, deep enough as if it would be able to make himself disappear in them. It was difficult to shrug off the feeling that he was seeing the headmaster after misbehaving in school. 

  
“That would be great,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thank you.”

He accepted the tumbler that Mycroft handed to him, relieved to have something that would keep his hands busy. 

“How are you ?” Mycroft asked.

Greg was not sure if he was interested in how he was and had the feeling that Mycroft was saying it out of politeness. “I saw Sherlock the other day,” Greg said. “He did not like the search of his flat. He was rather bothered that his sock index was messed up.”

Mycroft nodded and moved to sit down in his desk chair and steepled his hands under his chin. “I was pleased to find out that he was no...nasty discoveries in his flat.”

“I think that he is beating it this time,” Greg said, his tone of positivity sounded somewhat artificial. “He’s been doing rather well since he has been out of the hospital. It’s been...a month now?”

“Just under a month,” Mycroft said, glancing over a dairy. “As I said before, I do admire your positivity. The drug searches are still to be done weekly until I am satisfied. They can be performed fortnightly under my instruction.”

“Do you not think that this is excessive?” Greg asked. “Your brother is an adult and he can make his own choices. He is doing well, I take him to his counselling appointments and he has been going those Narcotics Anonymous meetings as well.”

Mycroft swirled the scotch in his glass avoiding his gaze. “What is going to happen once you stop accompanying him to his meetings?” he asked cooly. “He is not going to go on his own, he has only been sitting through those meetings as a policeman is escorting him there and back.”

“You don’t know that,” Greg said. “He is going to beat it this time. I know it. He’s in a much better position than he was this time around.”

Mycroft let out a humourless laugh and he suddenly looked more exhausted than he did before. “I have been telling myself that each time would be the last time for years. I always end up disappointed every time.” 

Greg wanted to reach over the wooden desk and grab Mycroft’s hand in the attempt to reassure him. The action was partly for himself, he had run himself ragged trying to keep an eye on Sherlock and make sure that he going to his meetings, that he had a good meal in him, and that he was constantly occupied with a cold case if nothing had taken his interest. He knew the possibility a relapse was on the cards, Greg feared something happening to him as much as Mycroft. 

He kept his hand to himself and forced it to grip the arm of the chair as if that alone was able to restrain himself. “He is going to get through this,” he said, mostly for the benefit of himself. “I know that you don’t believe me but it is different now. He has people who are looking out for him. If it goes wrong, he tries again. He is going to turn himself around, no matter how many attempts it takes. I believe that he can."

Mycroft let out a noncommittal noise and steepled his hands under his chin in deep thought. Greg was not sure if he was meant to leave or not, Mycroft had not exactly shooed him away but he did not say anything to keep him in the room. 

“How are you doing?” Greg asked after several long minutes of deafening silence. “ I know that this is a difficult situation for the families and friends of addicts. There are support groups, you know? It might help to talk to someone about it.”

Mycroft’s eyes were steel-like and piercing, he let out a humourless laugh at his suggestion. It was more exhausted than anything and there was a hardened look on his face, battle-worn. “I doubt that it would be any use,” he said flatly. “I was unaware that you were a social worker.” 

Greg shook his head. “I’m suggesting as your friend.”

  
“When did we become friends?” Mycroft asked, a confused expression contorted on his features. 

Greg shrugged as he leaned back in his chair. “1988?” he suggested. “1989? I know that friends don’t necessarily shag-”

“That is vulgar language,” Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust. “In my office of all places.”  
  


“Well considering that you did stick your hands in my trousers in a club toilet in Soho in the eighties, you can’t really talk, Myc,” Greg said as if he was talking about the weather. 

Mycroft’s ears went pink and he choked on the scotch he was drinking. 

Greg fished around his pocket for the business club for a support group for families and pushed it across the tabletop. He had picked it up when he was waiting in the hall for Sherlock’s meeting to be over, he doubted that Mycroft would ever use it but he hoped that the gesture would be enough. 

“I’m available to talk when you need it,” Greg said in a moment of boldness. “Is there anyone who is looking after you? You are looking a bit worse for wear, mate.”

“Why would I need looking after?” Mycroft asked he looked at him as if he had grown three heads suddenly. “I am not the one with a drug problem.”

Greg shook his head and sighed. He fought the urge to reach out across the table and grab Mycroft’s hand once more. “It is a difficult situation for you as well,” he said. “ Addiction can take it out on the families, I see it all the time at work. You have been dealing with this since you were in uni, that would have been a lot to take on as well as getting your coursework done.”

“I’m managing-” Mycroft said before Greg promptly cut him off. 

“When did you last had a proper meal or sleep?”

“What?” Mycroft asked. 

“You’ve been looking worse for wear each time I see you,” said Greg. “Is there anyone who is helping to look after you? I know that things must have been tough since Colin...left.”

Mycroft tried to give him a dangerous look but it had little impact, the strength it had it had been somewhat subdued after Greg had embarrassed him considerably. “Colin did not want to be involved with my situation and I preferred that he was not,” Mycroft sniffed. “It is not like he would have understood.”

“If you don’t mind me being so bold but he was a prick.”

Mycroft let out a noise of agreement even if he did not look thrilled with the choice of words. It seemed to have worked enough to defuse the somewhat claustrophobic feeling that was between them. 

“Do you ever wonder when life became so difficult?” Mycroft asked after several long minutes. “It felt so much easier to deal with things in the eighties. Things were a lot simpler then, even in regards to my situation.”,

“Every day of my life,” Greg said with a sigh. “I’d say that life’s been ramping up in the last two or three years.”

Mycroft did not say anything for a long moment, his eyes scanned Greg as if he was reading a book. His lips mouthed the words but no sound came out, partly hidden by Mycroft’s steepled fingers. Greg was not sure if that was more disconcerting to be deduced by Mycroft than Sherlock, Sherlock had the courtesy to say what he had found. 

“What are you seeing?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft blinked and fidgeted with his cufflink, an action to do when he was nervous. “I do apologise with your situation with your wife. The knowledge that they have been unfaithful was….more painful than I had expected.”

“We started the trial separation at the start of this month, counselling next,” Greg said with a heavy sigh, suddenly feeling as if he had aged considerably. “Not what I needed when your brother is having some bother, but it is what it is.”

“It will pass,” Mycroft said simply.

“Hopefully,” Greg nodded. “At least your brother is doing better and you aren’t dealing with this on your own anymore. Do you like shepherds pie?”

“Excuse me?”

Greg stood up from the desk and picked up the files of cold cases that he had originally come to see Mycroft about. “I’m making dinner and you look like you need a good meal in you. I cook for your brother all the time and I’m sure that I can make a plate up for you. It will be easy enough to make extra apple crumble for you.”

“You do not ne-”

“It’s honestly not a bother, Myc,” Greg shrugged. “I know that it is a lonely time for you.”

“I am not lonely,” Mycroft said immediately.

Greg could tell that he was lying, he had always been good at being able to tell when people were. The sentence seemed a bit too rehearsed and it was said as soon as the words had left his mouth, almost as if Mycroft was shooing away the concept of loneliness before it could stick to him. He wondered how many times Mycroft had tried to convince himself that was not lonely, it seemed like a lie that he told himself regularly.

“Dinner is going to be ready for eight, “ Greg stated once he had approached the door, he had the feeling that he had overstayed his welcome. “I trust that you know the address. You do not need to bring wine or anything. I look forward to seeing you.”

He left before Mycroft could give him a response. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The timing was not there. It never seemed to be when it came to the two of them. Always off a couple of beats."

That evening, Greg spent more time than he would have normally doting over a shepherd’s pie. He had never cared much for the presentation of his food and his cooking technique involved throwing things into a pot and hoping for the best, it had been when things started to get rough with Karen. 

He tried to ensure that all the pieces of carrots were the same size and in perfect shape. That his mashed potato did not have a single lump in it and it had been piped on top of the bag with great care with an icing bag that he had found in the back of the drawer. He knew that it was stupid to make this much of an effort on a shepherd’s pie but it had to be perfect. 

He doubted that Mycroft would be able to cope with anything less than perfect. Greg did not know if Mycroft was even going to come over for dinner that evening, he had made the offer and he had left before Mycroft could even answer him. He hoped that Mycroft would come over for dinner more than he would have cared to admit. 

Greg tried to brush off those thoughts and tried to tell himself that he was just wanting dinner to go well. It allowed himself to justify the long time he spent trying to make his shepherd’s pie look and taste perfect, how long he had cleaned up his flat and even longer trying to pick out his best shirt. He hadn’t made this much of an effort since the early days of his marriage. 

He told himself frequently that he was only making this much of an effort as Mycroft would not expect anything less than perfect. That only the best would do for someone like Mycroft. He reminded himself as he cooked that he wanted to impress Mycroft with some home-cooked food and that he was just wanting to get a good meal in him. He scolded himself several times for the growing sensation of nerves and the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach as the hands of the clock moved closer to eight. 

He knew that he had no right to have that feeling, it wasn’t as if something would happen that night, it was normal for two friends to have dinner together. Mycroft had invented him to dinner in that French restaurant and nothing had happened between them. 

He had tried to rewrite history when it came to parts of that evening. He tried to tell himself that he did not felt that jolt run through him as he grabbed Mycroft’s hand across the dinner table and that he did not hold it for longer than he should have. He also _certainly did not_ have Mycroft on his mind on a near-constant basis these days and never took those thoughts to the shower. 

Greg always felt somewhat guilty about it right after. It felt wrong to fantasise about a man who was currently vulnerable. The two of them were only connected by two evenings in a club in Soho and the dangerously fraying thread of Sherlock Holmes. It would be impossible for anything to happen, no matter how many times Greg had entertained the idea of getting divorced and being with a man again. 

Mycroft arrived at his flat at quarter to eight with a gift bag of wine in his hand. He was still dressed in the same well fitted three-piece suit that he wore when Greg had last seen him in the office. Greg tried to ignore the feeling of guilt that he ran through him when he realised his eyes lingered on Mycroft for longer than he should have done, admiring him. 

“I’m glad that you are here,” Greg said with a smile. 

He took Mycoft’s coat from him and the bag of wine from him. He opened up the bag and found two bottles of wine, the labels in French and looked expensive. He couldn’t exactly imagine that Mycroft popped to Tesco after work and bought what was on offer. 

“I was given it as a gift from work,” Mycroft said as he scanned the bottles. “I was not sure what was not the best paired with apple crumble.”

“I’ll go and take these to the kitchen and check up on dinner,” Greg said. “Feel free to make yourself comfortable. You can pick the music if you want.” 

Mycroft nodded and he was immediately drawn to the large bookshelf that was by the television. Greg smiled to himself and went into the kitchen. He tried to find the best wine glasses in the back of the cupboard, he doubted that Mycroft would approve much of drinking wine out of pint glass. 

“You have _Maurice_ ,” Mycroft said once Greg had appeared into the livingroom. “It is one of my favourite books. I read it regularly when I was at university.”

“I ended up getting it because of you,” Greg said with a smile, handing Mycroft a wine glass. “The way that you used to talk about it on the phone made it sound like it was amazing. It was, I did have to go to that book shop in London for it.”

Mycroft nodded in understanding and placed the book back onto the shelf. “I used to spend a lot of time in _Gay’s The Word_. I used to sneak when I was at university, I was terrified that someone would see me at the time. It was one of the few places that I could be myself without having to worry.”

Greg nodded and tried to ignore that nagging feeling that he had not exactly been truly himself in a long time. He hadn’t been since after that long month of silence from his parents after he had come out to them. 

“Gay bookshops,” he said. “The only part of London gay life that you did embrace, wasn't it? It seems far much more up your alley than clubs. I can’t exactly imagine you in a pride parade.”

“I’ve never had the desire to be in a parade,” Mycroft said, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “There are so many people. I would not want to advertise that I was gay, especially not in those days. I was trying to get a career started and it would surely hinder it.”

“I’ve been to a few back in the day,” Greg said, feeling somewhat thrilled that he had been able to tell someone about this aspect of his past that he had long pushed back. He pulled out a photograph that he had kept hidden in the pages of a book. 

He looked it at for a long moment before he handed it to Mycroft. He knew that the photograph was of him but he could not recognise himself. It was a completely different life back then and he was a very different person to who he was now. He just saw himself as being old and stuck in his life. He wondered if his younger self would approve or even like what he had become.

Mycroft chuckled quietly at the photograph, examining it quietly. “How much hair product did you use back then? It’s no wonder that you are going grey now.”

“It’s that or its from dealing with your brother,” Greg said. “He’s causing trouble up in a convent in Sheffield. Headless nun. “

Mycroft wrinkled his nose up in disgust. “Right up his alley, unfortunately.” 

“As long as it keeps him out of trouble, I don’t mind what he does,” Greg said with a shrug. “He is meant to be going to a local meeting. I’ve ensured that one of the officers takes him there and makes sure he stays. He is going to phone me several times to let me know how he is. God knows that he is going to do it,” Greg said with a sigh. 

He looked over at Mycroft who fiddled with his cufflink, his bottom lip between his teeth. “He is going to be fine. I understand that it is scary not having him in close reach. I’m terrified but he is with all of these other officers who are looking out for him. We can’t have him wrapped up in cotton wool forever.”

“I always worry that when I am away that something always happens to him or he gets into trouble,” Mycroft reluctantly confessed. “I believe that if I did not leave home those years ago that he would have never have gotten into this trouble.”

“Why did you leave?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft sighed and seemed rather focused on his pattern on the leather of his shoes. “It seemed that it was the best thing to do,” he uttered. “My parents and I had a disagreement…they were not accepting of me. There was a lot of disagreements between us before especially when it came to Sherlock.”

Greg reached out and grabbed Mycroft’s hand, squeezing it hard. “It’s tough, I had my parents not talk to me for a month when I told them that I was seeing Andy. They were thrilled to find out that I ‘ _had packed that silly behaviour in_ ,’ when I started to see Karen. “

“I am sorry,” Mycroft said. 

“Don’t be,” Greg tried to make himself smile even if it felt difficult with that memory on his mind. “Why don’t we have a night where we just eat some dinner, listen to good music and just forget about the real world for a bit?”

“That sounds brilliant, “ Mycroft said with a shy smile. “Do you happen to have any of the music that we used to listen to? “

“A whole iPod of it,” Greg said with a grin. “It was really much better than the stuff that people listen to now.”

Greg fiddled with his iPod and connected it to his speaker. Mycroft smiled a little at the Kate Bush that was playing, he could hardly imagine that Mycroft would have been a fan of her. 

Once the music was sorted, Greg went into the kitchen with Mycroft following behind him. “Do you need me to do anything?” Mycroft asked. 

Greg shook his head and started to pull out the best plates from the cupboard before he took the shepherd's pie form the oven. “You can just sit down, I’m not putting a guest to work. You did not even have to bring wine with you.”

“It was the least that I could do,” Mycroft shrugged. “You are making dinner for me. If there is anything that I could do to make it up to you.”

Greg shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You could admit that you put on your accent. It’s already changed since you’ve had that one glass of wine.” 

“I do not put on my accent,” Mycroft protested, his accent sounding more put together and posh than it was before, the rough edge around it had gone away almost instantly. It confirmed Greg’s theory that he did put on an accent slightly. 

“Keep telling yourself that,” Greg teased. 

* * *

Greg was surprised to discover that dinner with Mycroft was an easy affair and how smooth it went. They had been somewhat awkward moments and lulls in conversation but after a glass of wine or two, they had relaxed considerably and were talking like old friends. 

Conversation between them floated easily once they ignored the large elephant in the room, the topic of Sherlock Holmes. He had been the only topic that the two had talked of late and it was refreshing to talk about something else. 

Greg found himself pleasantly surprised to discover that he could talk about anything with Mycroft. They talked about everything and nothing over thier plates of shepherds pie. Greg found himself feeling thrilled that he could talk about his younger years and memories without having to edit out the parts of his past in the London gay scene or what he was up to or who he was with at a certain time. 

For the first time since his twenties, Greg felt as if someone had seen him. The real him and unedited. 

Mycroft seemed to be happy just to listen to him talk about those things, adding his own comment here and there. Greg had the feeling that he did not have much to add, his experiences of being wild and carefree were severely limited because of his brother. 

He kept asking Mycroft if he was having a good time. Mycroft always said the same thing and seemed amused that he had kept asking that question. 

“You don’t need to do those dishes,” Greg said as he noticed Mycroft rolling up his sleeves. The jacket had become lost and his tie loosened once the second glass on wine had been drunk. “They can soak.”

Mycroft wrinkled up his nose in disgust at the thought of leaving dishes in the sink overnight. “It is not a bother for me,” he said. “You did make me dinner. It is only fair.”

Greg did not try to protest and forced himself to stare at the kitchen cupboard next to Mycroft to avoid looking at his backside. He found himself admiring Mycroft with his rolled sleeves and his surprisingly plush arse.

He had a moment over dinner when Mycroft was talking about the merits of Jane Austen with such passion for some reason and another when he let out an undignified snort at a joke that he had made. It was not even a good joke to make matters worse. 

That moment hit Greg over the head like a brick as he suddenly realised that he potentially fancied Mycroft. The sight of Mycroft washing his dishes confirmed Greg’s suspicions. The guilt washed over him quickly. 

He was a married man. Mycroft was extremely vulnerable over his brother. The timing was not there. It never seemed to be when it came to the two of them. Always off a couple of beats.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Mycroft said after a few moments, the sponge in his hand. “Having a deep thought?” 

Greg shook his head and swallowed hard. The wine glass that he was drying nearly shattered in his hand with how tightly he gripped it as the realisation struck him.

There was so much that Greg wanted to say but he could not get the words out. “I’m just wondering if I should have custard or ice cream with my crumble," he managed to utter. 

Mycroft did not say anything for a moment and looked at him with a puzzled expression. Almost knowing and curious to find out what was going on in his head. He swallowed hard and turned back to focus on his dishes. "Custard would be nice."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m just fed up of this,” Greg said. “The pretending and everything. You are the only person who knows that I exist. I don’t have to tell lies or pretend about what I like or who I am when I’m with you.”
> 
> Mycroft chewed at his bottom lip thoughtfully. He did not speak for a long moment, almost as if he was carefully selecting each word that he spoke. “I am glad that you can be honest with me.”

Mycroft knew that it was a foolish decision to get himself with Gregory Lestrade once again. He kept trying to tell himself that their recent contact with another after so many years was only for professional purposes and to ensure his brother’s wellbeing. 

He knew that it was a mistake to allow himself to see Gregory Lestrade in anything other than a professional light. He knew that it would only lead to disaster and heartbreak for himself. It would not be fo the fist time that Mycroft had his heart shattered over Greg Lestrade and he still felt the sharp twinge in his heart even if had been over a decade. 

He had tried to keep it professional and tried to ignore any of the feelings that were rising to the surface after being buried for years. It was becoming increasingly difficult as the days passed and the more that he had interacted with Lestrade. 

  
He had stupidly thought that he could just get away with allowing himself to be just friends with Greg. It was the most that he could allow himself especially when their two lives interlocked together due to Sherlock. There was a risk when it came to be friends with Greg and if the two of them had a falling out, Greg was more likely to be in Sherlock’s life.

Mycroft feared what would happen if he allowed himself to feel anything more for Greg than he already did. He disliked the idea of his brother being impacted by his personal life. He had often had to make the difficult choice between his personal relationships and his brother; Sherlock had and always would come first. 

The decision never got less painful as the years passed, no matter how many times he had to make it. He was weighed down and pained by it regularly these days. 

Greg had moved on and he was married, even if unhappily. He was undergoing a trial separation with his wife and still wore his wedding ring, almost out of hope that his marriage would eventually be healed after some time apart and counselling sessions. 

No matter how much he disliked the situation and considered Greg’s wife to be a foolish and horrid woman for her adulty, he would not interfere. It was ungentlemanlike to be involved in a crumbling marriage and Mycroft had little desire to be a part of this misery of a crumbling marriage. There would be so much risk and heartbreak involved, more so than there was already. 

* * *

After two marriage counselling sessions, Greg started to dread Wednesday afternoons. His afternoon appointment from two o’clock to the half-past three was the thing that Greg had started to dread most during the week. He always left the session alone, agitated and his wallet lighter. 

Greg was not sure why he has even attended marriage counselling after the first appointment and felt as if he was going for appearance’s sake. 

Karen did not attend the first two sessions, instead had been ‘held up at work.’ It wasn’t until he heard from his sister that she and Karen had been on a spa visit together when the first counselling session was taking place. The second session, Karen had ‘forgotten,’ about the session and had made other plans. Greg tried to joke to the councillor that he should just get divorced now to save the money instead of wasting it on counselling appointments. The silence that fell after it was deafening. 

Karen had attended the third appointment much to Greg’s surprise. It was the worse hour and a half of Greg’s life. The two of them sat in deafening silence for the majority of the appointment and when Karen spoke, she accused him of destroying the marriage. That his commitment to his work meant that he never truly cared about her. 

Sherlock was brought up as ammunition against him as well. It was after she had insulted Sherlock, she called him several names ‘freak,’ being the tamest that Greg had to leave before he said something that he regretted. 

It was after his second pint, Greg had the nagging feeling that marrying Karen was possibly one of the stupidest decisions of his twenties. He hadn’t meant to even propose to her that morning, he was only trying to cheer her up after missing her sister’s wedding. He hadn’t even had a ring at the time and he had to give her a borrowed ring from his sister’s jewellery box until he could save up enough money for an engagement ring. 

After four pints, Greg allowed himself to look at an attractive businessman on the other side of the pub. He had only allowed himself to take a glance at the women in the pub, it was what he had only allowed himself to do for the last ten or so years, he couldn’t remember exactly when he had broken up with Andy, it was on and off again for some time. 

He had slipped occasionally over those ten years, a particular man would catch his eye and he could not help but look. He almost felt ashamed when he did, especially when he was with Karen. He always thought about his parents and that awful month, the isolation that came as a result. He almost felt as if he was disappointing them again. 

He had felt almost attacked by the councillor when she had asked if he had not been entirely truthful about who he was in Karen’s comment that he was not fully open and honest with her. That he was holding back each thought that was in his head and refused to let anyone see who he was, she suggested that it was potentially out of fear and rejection. 

  
The counselling session turned even sourer after that and Greg wanted nothing more than to leave. 

He hardly knew who he actually was these days, he hadn’t known since he was in his twenties. He had allowed himself to be shaped and moulded by people. He had started to support Southend United when he was a teenager to avoid arguments with his dad and his mates back home , he had always much preferred Arsenal. He took up smoking because of one girlfriend and tried to give it up several times for Andy and lasted about a month for Karen. 

He changed so much for Karen. Greg assumed that it is what he was meant to do when he got married, that he was meant to put his carefree years and his old self in the cupboard like an old coat and become an adult. He thought that adult life was meant to be hiding the person that he used to be and suddenly become more of an adult. He stopped going to clubs and he never walked in Soho unless he had to do so for work. He stopped dressing the way that he used to and got rid of the motorbike. He looked at women and never even gave a hint to anyone that he liked men. He spent his evenings going to couples pottery classes that he hated. He was even a vegetarian for a year when Karen decided for both of them. 

It almost felt as if he was sneaking around and hiding all the time. His bisexuality a secret from everyone apart from a few people, like when he was still meant to be vegetarian but used to eat McDonald's and KFC with his mates from work. 

Greg knew that he should have been heartbroken about getting a trial separation from Karen but he felt somewhat free. He felt a lot happier when she wasn’t around and constantly criticising him. There was no one there to moan when he played the music that the liked or when he cooked his favourite foods. There was no one there to moan at him when he brought work home or when he was kept there late. 

Greg took off his ring once he had finished off his pint and put it in his coat pocket. He looked at a young couple who were arguing quietly among themselves and shook his head at them. They looked as if they were in their twenties and had been arguing all night with another. It made him think of him and Karen especially in the early days of the relationship. They argued constantly but he had never thought that it was a flag. 

He told the lad as he had walked passed him to go to the door; “Don’t propose to cheer her up, you’ll regret it. The worst mistake that I’ve ever made.”

* * *

Greg was not sure why he had decided to phone Mycroft when he was rather drunk. He could not think of anyone who he wanted to talk to or that he could talk to. He did not have anyone else who he could not be fully honest with and he wanted to talk to someone who saw him for who he truly was, warts and all. 

He did not understand why Mycroft was rather polite to him even was rather drunk on the phone. He had expected him to hang up at least but found himself surprised when Mycroft stayed with him on the phone and asked him where he was. 

  
He had rambled on about something to Mycroft, he could not remember what he said exactly. He had ranted on about Karen and what she had said about Sherlock. How he felt that his marriage was over when Karen did not make the effort in counselling. He had kept going on about how he was bisexual and how he was fed up of pretending. 

He was surprised that Mycroft had listened to his ranting. He never interjected or tried to interrupt him and allowed him to say whatever he had buried deep within him for so many years. 

It was with great reluctance that Greg hung up the phone and forced himself to sit on the bench near the phone box. It made him think of his twenties when he used to use the phone box outside the house for ages, constantly feeding it coins to have one more minute with Mycroft on the phone. Mycroft could have been talking about paint for how much Greg cared, all he knew was that he just needed one more minute of hearing his voice. 

He still felt the same these days. He did not know how the topic of Jane Austen novels were brought up over dinner and he had never cared much for them, but hearing Mycroft talk about them with such passion, it was impossible for Greg to not read them. He had picked up a copy of Pride and Prejudice from the library the morning after he had dinner with Mycroft.

He was worried about how much he fancied Mycroft. He doubted that he had ever stopped liking him since their first meeting together in 1988. It had always been a quiet simmer in the background and there was always one part of his mind and heart that held onto those two precious evenings in the eighties. 

  
There was something there that Greg had never experienced with anyone else. He felt the spark the first time that they had met and it had never dulled, not back then and not now. He doubted that it would ever leave him, it would be a constant in his life. 

He had little idea what made Mycroft so special or why he had given a piece of his heart to Mycroft in that night in Soho and why he had never asked for it back. He knew that he should have moved on from two nights in his twenties, it was a different life back then. 

He doubted that he would be able to get that piece of his heart back. He had surrendered it willingly to Mycroft in a night club in Soho without a moment of hesitation or thought about the consequences. 

“I am going to avoid the pleasantries,” Mycroft said instead of a greeting. “You are in an awful mood because of your marriage counselling session and you have decided to take your misery to the pub.” 

Greg shuffled awkwardly on the bench that he was sat on to make space for Mycroft. He gestured loosely to space in the bench for Mycroft to sit next to him. 

“Can’t believe that you are actually here,” Greg said, gruffly. “I didn’t think that you would, I must have sounded like a prick on the phone. Sit down and have a chat with me.”

Mycroft looked at the bench for a moment and wrinkled his nose in disgust at it, with a sigh, he sat down on the damp bench. “You did ask me to come and see you,” he said simply. “I know that it is best not to let someone be when they are in not sober or are rather _fragile._ ”

“I am not bloody fragile,” Greg grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. “I am far from it. I’m just pissed off with everything. My life has gone down the gutters.”

Mycroft tried to smile at him, an attempt of reassurance, that did not quite reach his eyes. “I doubt that your life is that awful,” he said. “It is a rough patch, it will get better. There is a chance that you and your wife will patch things up.”

Greg could hear the note of disappointment in his voice. He was not entirely sure that he was almost imagining it. “I’m just done with this,” Greg said. “What she had said about your brother was just horrid. I’m not sticking around with someone who accuses me of not caring about my marriage because I keep an eye on your brother. I’m not going to abandon him for her, no matter what she says.”

Mycroft did not say anything, he looked rather lost on what to say. There was something behind his eyes that Greg could not exactly make out. He found himself distracted by Mycroft in the soft glow of the street light. He looked rather beautiful and Greg could almost count the small freckles on the bridge of his nose if he looked close enough. 

“I’m just fed up of this,” Greg said. “The pretending and everything. You are the only person who knows that I exist. I don’t have to tell lies or pretend about what I like or who I am when I’m with you.”

Mycroft chewed at his bottom lip thoughtfully. He did not speak for a long moment, almost as if he was carefully selecting each word that he spoke. “I am glad that you can be honest with me.”

“You are my mate,” Greg shrugged. 

“You did sound rather upset with me on the phone,” Mycroft said carefully after a moment of hesitation. “You also said something interesting to me on the phone...I doubt that it is true.”

Greg managed to sober up almost instantly once Mycroft had spoken. He almost felt nauseated with the realisation of what he had said on the phone. He had been ranting on about his bisexuality and then he had said something that he knew that he would regret the moment that it had left his mouth. 

“Mycroft-” Greg sighed, unable to figure out where he was meant to start. 

  
“You are just rather drunk,” Mycroft said, firmly. “You would have never said anything like that when you are sober. You are just rather upset about your marriage.”   
  


Mycroft stood up from the bench and offered a hand to Greg to help him up. “I can drop you off to your flat.” 

Greg shook his head violently. “I can’t be there anymore,” he said. “There’s too much...Karen in that flat even though she’s gone.”

“You can stay the evening in my flat,” Mycroft said without a moment of hesitation. “I do have a spare bedroom.”

  
Greg took Mycroft’s hand and allowed Mycroft to haul him up, he wobbled slightly and had to grab Mycroft’s hand and his shoulder to support himself. He found himself dangerously close to Mycroft’s face, he knew that it would hardly take any effort to kiss him. He just had to move his head slightly and it would be enough. 

“You are far too kind,” Greg murmured, licking his bottom lip. 

He could count the freckles on Mycroft’s nose with great ease and he could smell his aftershave. He had never noticed how blue Mycroft’s eyes were before. The expression that was on his face, a mixture of confusion and concern, looked rather endearing. He was beautiful. It was impossible to deny that he liked me and he never knew why he had done so for so long. 

“Has anyone told you that you are a really handsome bloke?” Greg asked with the confidence that he been lacking recently. He fiddled with Mycroft’s scarf and smiled to himself. 

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured. “I think that we should get some food in you and get you to bed to sober you up.”

“I never stopped fancying you,” Greg said, unrestrained in the slightest. “I’m not just saying that because I’m drunk.” 

  
“Gregory-” 

  
He did not allow Mycroft to finish his sentence and without a second thought, he kissed Mycroft. A clumsy kiss with a crash of noses and teeth. 

He swore that Mycroft kissed him back for a brief moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and support for this story, it always motivates me to write!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ' “I think that we could never work. The timing has never been there for us,” he said. “I think that you like the idea of me, you would not actually like me.” 
> 
> He tried to ignore the sharp pain that stabbed his heart. He gripped the glass that he was washing in his hand so hard that it shattered. “You hardly know me,” he said. “The two of us have romanticised another from two nights when we were in our twenties, some phone calls, and these recent encounters. You would not like who I am as a person and I am certainly not worth you throwing your marriage away for.”'

_1990_

“You are upset,” Sherlock uttered out from his hospital bed. He looked smaller and younger than his years, he looked better than he did when he was first admitted to the hospital. His cheeks were no longer as sunken in and he had put on a little bit of weight, Mycroft still hated the sight and found it difficult to look at him without a strong feeling of guilt. 

Mycroft blinked and lifted his head from the copy of _Treasure Island_ that he had been reading out loud for Sherlock. He stopped midsentence as Sherlock spoke and tried to pretend that he had not heard his brother’s statement and tried to read again. He found himself unable to find where he had been left off. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Mycroft murmured, he reached out and gave Sherlock’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “We are almost at your favourite bit of the story. What would you like me to read to you tomorrow? I can always stop by the library or a book shop tomorrow if you have something in mind.”

“What has upset you?” Sherlock asked, swatting Mycroft’s hand away. “Or should I be asking, who has upset you?”

“I would much prefer to read. It would do you more good focusing on this book than what is going on in my life,” Mycroft said. “There is nothing that you need to worry about.” 

Mycroft tried to read but struggled to find the sentence where he was at. He knew that Sherlock did not care much for the story and he had been sleeping until recently. Mycroft felt the need to read out loud to him, he could not do anything else to help and he needed to feel useful. 

He often felt as if he was watching his brother through a glass window that he was unable to break through and help him. He had to watch as Sherlock harm himself and became more wrapped up in the silly idea that no one cared for him in the slightest or that his life was not worth living. He could not do anything to help in the slightest other than take him to hospital and support him as much as Sherlock allowed him to do. 

He felt absolutely helpless and completely alone more often than he would care to admit. 

“Are you disappointed with me?” Sherlock asked. “Is that why you are so upset?”

Mycroft shook his head and passed Sherlock a cup of water. He scolded himself for allowing his feelings to show, it was completely unprofessional. He had no right to be upset, Greg had moved on and Mycroft knew that he should have done so as well. He had been completely foolish for allowing himself to hope that he would see Greg in the club and that he would be there waiting for him. 

“I’m not upset with you in the slightest,” he murmured in the attempt to reassure him. He helped Sherlock take a few sips of water and smoothed his messy curls into place. “I just want you to get better. I am just wanting you to focus on getting better. This is going to be the last time that you are going to be here.”

Mycroft tried to ignore the bitter taste as the words had come out of his mouth. He had said that sentence the last two times that Sherlock had ended up in this situation and found himself increasingly disappointed with each set back that Sherlock had. He was foolish enough to cling onto hope. 

“Who has upset you?” Sherlock asked. “You’ve met someone, haven’t you?”

Mycroft shook his head and tried to fight down the watery sigh that was wanting to be released. “It does not matter,” he said simply, mostly for himself. “You are always going to come first to me. Nothing is going to ever change that.”

“We are not like ordinary people, are we?” Sherlock asked, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen between them. 

It was more of a statement than a question. Mycroft tried to find an answer to his question but found it impossible. “There has been nothing about us that has been ordinary,” Mycroft finally managed to say. “I think that I will continue to read, it is near the end of visiting hours and I do wish to finish off this book.” 

Sherlock opened up his mouth to ask another question but closed it promptly after a particular look from Mycroft. He gave Mycroft a singular nod, encouraging him to carry on with his book. 

* * *

2006

Mycroft pulled away from Greg and took a deep breath to centre himself. He scolded himself for being so foolish to kiss him, he knew that only trouble was to come as a result of the situation. It had taken all of his strength to pull back from him. As much as he wanted to do and saw the sign that he had been looking for years, this was not the right time. 

Mycroft did not even know if that green flag was even real. He wondered if he had been looking for a sign for so long that his foolish feeling of hope managed to create something that was not there. 

There was something between them, Mycroft could hardly deny his own feelings. The timing was never there for them and it would never be. They were always going to be out of sync with another. 

It was a difficult truth to swallow and it left a bitter taste in Mycroft’s mouth. If the timing was not there in 1988, when he was considerably less damaged and he had not had the full weight of the country and of his brother on his shoulders, it would certainly not be there now. It would never be there. 

He was not sure how he had managed to get the strength to talk. He could not look at Greg when he did so, he looked bold and unashamed of what he had done. There was not a single ounce of regret that surrounded him, he might have felt differently in the morning. 

  
“We need to get you into the car and straight to bed,” Mycroft said with more confidence than he felt. 

“I’m fine,” Greg said. “Do you want to talk about this? Us?”

Mycroft shook his head even if it was against the wishes of his heart. There was a jolt that ran through him from his heart when Greg referred to them as ‘ _us.’_ The thought of him and Greg being together, being a singular unit, did have its appeal, it would only happen in another world, of course. This universe had rarely been so kind to him over the years and it quickly took away the few moments of happiness that it did allow him. 

“Do you need help to get into the car?” Mycroft forced himself to say. 

Greg shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets as if he could make himself disappear if he put them in there deep enough. “I’m fine,” he muttered. 

Mycroft stood close to him and kept a hand on his shoulder guiding him to the car, regardless of what Greg said. He wanted to remove his hand as soon as he had placed it on Greg’s arm as if he had touched something hot once he could feel Greg’s muscular arm. 

  
He managed to guide Greg into the car with great ease, he had plenty of experience of doing it with Sherlock. It was a skill that he wished that he did not have. 

He helped Greg with his seatbelt and he slipped into the driver's seat. He did not feel that it was fair to drag his driver away from his family to only get dragged into his mess. 

“Do you want music?” Mycroft managed to utter out. “There are CDs in the glove compartment or there is the radio.”

Greg nodded and started to inspect the CD cases with great care, occasionally asking his thoughts on what he wanted to listen to. Mycroft did not care what they listened to, he just wanted anything to block out the deafening silence between them and he found himself relieved when Kate Bush’s _Wuthering Heights_ seemed to do the trick. 

“What are you thinking?” Greg asked once the song had ended and _Frankie Goes to Hollywood_ ’s _Relax_ started to play. “You are having a deep thought.”

Mycroft gripped the steering wheel hard as if it was the only thing that would be able to keep him grounded and from being lost in his own head. “It does not matter,” he said simply, partly to reassure himself and to ignore the scream of an alarm that had been playing in his head since that kiss. 

“It does matter,” Greg said. “I know that you are bothered by me and that we should-.”

“I’m just thinking about Sherlock,” Mycroft fibbed, the words coming out of his mouth before he could hardly think of what to say. “He has not contacted me today and I am only concerned for him. That is the only thing that is bothering me, so do not flatter yourself, Gregory.” 

Greg opened up his mouth and closed it again, a pained expression made its way on his face for a moment and he quickly hid it. Mycroft immediately regretted the words he had said, it was one of the rare occasions that he did. 

He tried to apologise but Greg had spoken before he could open his mouth. “I know that you are lying. I can tell when you are lying, ” he said. “I just want to say that I’m sorry. I think that we should talk about...”

Mycroft shook his head and gripped the wheel tightly. “ There is nothing to apologise for,” he managed to force out. “I know that this was a mistake for you. You’ve just had a bit too much to drink and you are going through a difficult time.”

“I did mean what I said,” Greg said, his voice serious, running his hand through his hair. “I would never lie to you. I have no reason to do so, you are the only person who knows what and who I am.”

Mycroft almost believed him and wanted to do so desperately. He could not allow himself to do so, it would only lead to disappointment for him in the end. “Greg-”

Greg cut him off before he could finish off his sentence. “I meant what I said. I’ve never stopped,” he said as if the words were difficult to admit to himself. “There is something between us, you can hardly deny it.”

Mycroft took in a deep breath and forced himself to stare out into the road, he could not trust himself to look at Greg. “I know,” he murmured, his voice uncomfortably tight. He hardly knew how he managed to find the courage to speak. “This timing is not right, it has never been right between us. You are a married man, Greg.” 

“I’m going to get divorced,” Greg stated. “I can’t be with Karen anymore, she is not even wanting to make the effort to fix this marriage. I can’t go around lying to myself and everyone, I’ve been doing it for far too long and I can’t anymore.”

“You should not make a hasty decision when you are drunk. You may end up doing something that you will...regret.” The last word was painfully difficult to say and it got stuck in this throat. He wondered if Greg would look upon this evening and that kiss with it. 

  
  


Mycroft parked the car and fumbled with the keys to the door. He struggled to find which one was for his front door and he could not get it into the lock. He was relieved when he managed to get the door open and he quickly showed Greg where the spare bedroom was. 

Greg did not go into the bedroom and hung around him in the kitchen as he started to rummage around the cupboard for the emergency biscuits that he ate when he was somewhat stressed. He needed something with chocolate to help the ache in his heart before the pain started to really hit. 

“How do we move on from this?” Greg asked, leaning on the kitchen counter. “What are you wanting to do?”

Mycroft put down the packet of chocolate digestives that he was trying to open. “I do not know,” he sighed. “This is not a good time. The timing has never been there when we first met, it will never be there now.”

Greg let out a bitter laugh. “I never knew that you were such a pessimist.” 

“I like to think of myself as a realist,” Mycroft replied firmly. “You are a married man, I am not going to get involved with you when you are married. You might have something good with Karen and I am not going to make you lose it. There is a chance that you will get past this.” 

Greg shook his head and scrubbed a tired hand across his face, he looked older than his years. “ I don’t think that there is a chance of it happening,” he sighed. “I think that me and you could work. There has always been something between us, you can’t deny it. You kissed me back!” 

Mycroft turned his back and focused on the dishes in the sink. He could not trust himself to look at Greg without his emotions getting into the way, He did not want to make a foolish decision fueled by emotions. 

“I think that we could never work. The timing has never been there for us,” Mycroft said flatly. “I think that you like the idea of me. You would not actually like who I actually am. ” 

"What on earth are you talking about?" Greg asked.

He tried to ignore the sharp pain that stabbed his heart. He gripped the glass that he was washing in his hand so hard that it shattered. “You hardly know me,” he said. “The two of us have romanticised another from two nights when we were in our twenties, some phone calls, and these recent encounters. I represent a time when you felt like you could be yourself and you were not weighed down with the responsibilities of your work, my brother, and your marriage. You would not like who I am as a person, and it is the idea of me that you are wanting, I can assure you. I am certainly not worth you throwing your marriage away for, so please do not cause yourself any more heartbreak.”

“I think that you are just running away, you know that this could be a good thing, me and you,” Greg protested. 

The phone rang before Mycroft could open his mouth to reply. Mycroft dried his hands and picked up the landline. 

There were two words spoken by Sherlock on the phone. _Danger Night._

It was enough to make Mycroft put on his jacket without a second through. “I need to go,” he said flatly. “Make yourself comfortable for the evening.”

  
“You are running away from this because you are scared.” 

Mycroft wrapped his scarf around his neck and shook his head. “Sherlock is always going to come first,” he said simply. 

* * *

“You are upset,” Sherlock stated, his voice muffled from the thick blanket that he had wrapped around himself tightly. 

Mycroft looked up from the copy of _Treasure Island_ that he was reading out loud for Sherlock. He doubted that it would be able to bring much comfort to him when he was in a night like this. It was the most that he could do for him on a night like this, read to him until Sherlock fell asleep or until his urges were quelled enough for him to be on his own. 

“What gives you that idea?” He asked as if Sherlock had said something completely ridiculous. 

  
Mycroft removed his suit jacket and untied his shoes and lay on top of the bed when Sherlock shifted on the bed, leaving a space for him to squeeze on. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock and Sherlock rested his head on his shoulder. 

Mycroft tried to hide his sigh of disappointment, he knew that Sherlock must have been feeling low enough to actually want physical comfort from him. He found himself thankful that Sherlock had phoned him instead of giving in to the urges. He knew that he would have to make an appointment for him in the morning, it was the second danger night in a row.

  
“I can always tell that you are upset,” he said. 

“I’m not upset in the slightest,” Mycroft murmured. 

“Who has upset you?” Sherlock asked. “I’m sorry that I’ve let you down again.”

Mycroft shook his head and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. “I am not disappointed in you in the slightest. I’m pleased that you told me that you were feeling like this. I did promise to you all those years ago that I would be there whenever you needed me. We do have our agreement, remember.”

“It’s Lestrade, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, even though he knew the answer.

“It does not matter,” Mycroft stated, mostly for his own benefit than for Sherlock’s. “You are always going to come first.”

Sherlock opened up his mouth once more and closed it, unsure what to say. “Can you go back to reading? My favourite part is just about to come up,” he requested. 

Mycroft sighed in relief at Sherlock’s request and he quickly found the sentence that he was reading before Sherlock had interrupted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the comments and kudos! They really help me keep on writing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“Why can’t no one take care of you?” Greg asked. “I do like you, not just this stupid idea of you. Let me get to know you, I’ll do whatever this takes. I know that you are scared.”
> 
> Mycroft opened up his mouth and closed it again. He sighed and tried to cover it up with a half-hearted attempt as a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I think that we are going to be better off as just friends, Greg,” he said. “I know that it is going to be difficult and as much as I would like more...it would benefit Sherlock more if we are just friends.”'

Greg opened up his eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling at around lunchtime. He tried to piece together the evening before in his half-awake state. The only thing that he knew for certain was that he was not in his own flat, the ceiling did not have the coffee stain on the ceiling that had gotten there from an explosive fight with Karen and that the flat that he was in was considerably much nicer and expensive than his own.

With great reluctance, Greg forced himself off the plush sofa that he had been sleeping on. He could not remember for the life of him when he had fallen asleep. He felt surprisingly well-rested even if he had felt as if death had warmed up considerably and his mouth felt like an ashtray. 

He had a nagging feeling that he had made a large mistake and he had taken a wrong turn on the road last night. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, he had experienced it on many occasions over the last three years of his marriage. 

He splashed water on his face and started to make himself tea in an attempt to feel more human. It was a picture on the mantlepiece that caught Greg’s attention when he walked back into the sofa with his mug of sugary tea, that brought Greg back to what happened last night.

It was a picture of a slightly smug-looking Mycroft, looking not much older from when Greg had first seen him all those years ago, clutching a university certificate in his hand. Sherlock was standing next to him and scowling. His hair was wild and he looked as thin as a rake. His limbs seemed to be out of proportion from his body and looked as if he would have rather been anywhere else than university graduation. Greg briefly wondered about what trouble Sherlock had gotten himself involved in at that time if he had been experimenting with drugs them. 

Greg glanced at the banner in the background of the photograph, _1989._ He had last met up with Mycroft and spent the night together with him in July, not long after that photograph had been taken. 

  
Greg wondered if that evening in the club that evening was one of Mycroft’s last evenings of relative freedom before he had taken on the responsibility of looking after Sherlock. He wondered how long until after that photograph had Sherlock’s problems started and what he had done to make Mycroft end things with him that evening. 

After that evening, Greg often wondered what his life would have been if Mycroft had not shooed him off that evening. He knew that he probably should have called at least once, just to make sure that Mycroft was alright. He had thought about it so many times but he had never picked up the phone. He had been too stubborn to do and feared about getting brushed off by Mycroft again and tried to find a similar connection that he had with Mycroft in someone else.

He quickly put down the photograph that he had been expected when he heard Mycroft walk through the door with a heavy sigh, his umbrella clattering to the floor. 

Greg stood by the door to the kitchen and watched Mycroft several moments, unsure about what he was meant to do or say. He doubted that he could do anything or that Mycroft wanted to deal with him especially after what had been said between them. 

After taking several deep breaths in the attempt to summon up the remains of any courage he had, Greg wordlessly walked into the kitchen and started to make tea. It was the least that he could do and he doubted that Mycroft would turn down a cup of tea especially in the state that he was in. 

He was considerably more rumpled since Greg had last seen him and the smell of cigarettes lingered around him. Greg could smell the half-hearted attempt to disguise the smell with extra strong mints. There were dark circles over his eyes and he had gone pale, he just looked so exhausted almost as if someone had completely drained the batteries from him. He looked more like a stranger had put themselves in Mycroft’s suit in an impersonation of him. 

  
Greg almost felt as if he was intruding seeing Mycroft in this state. He knew that Mycroft would not have willingly allowed anyone to see him like this. He doubted that he had Colin or any old boyfriends see him so run down. He knew that not even Sherlock would be permitted to see him look this exhausted not even for a moment. 

  
He fiddled around in the kitchen in the attempt to keep himself busy, unsure what he should say to Mycroft. He started to rummage around in the cupboards in the attempt to find Mycroft something to eat. The cupboards were bare apart from packets of biscuits, tea bags, and two tins of baked beans. The fridge was not much better and only had a nearly empty pint of milk it, a bottle of soya sauce, and packets of sauce from takeaways. 

  
The awful wallpaper made the kitchen look cold and uninviting, almost dungeon-like. Greg found himself speechless, he had never expected Mycroft Holmes, possibly the poshest bloke that he had ever met to have the most depressing kitchen. It was not much better than the awful bedsit that Greg had rented in his early twenties and Greg’s cupboards and fridge were well filled unlike Mycroft’s. 

He kept his back to Mycroft as he made him tea and kept chattering about what he was going to make for lunch in the attempt to block out the deafening silence that surrounded Mycroft. 

“How is Sherlock?” Greg asked with a heavy sigh. He closed his eyes in the attempt to prepare himself from the impact of the answer that he had been dreading to hear. “You left so suddenly and you’ve been out all morning.”

“Sherlock has agreed to go back into inpatient treatment,” Mycroft said, his voice tight and if there was something in his throat. “We decided that it was best for him. Sherlock has been struggling considerably and last evening made it... evident.”

Even though he had gripped onto the kitchen counter to brace himself for the answer, it had crashed over him horribly and nearly knocked him from his feet. He wasn’t expecting good news from Mycroft but he had not expected Sherlock to have taken several steps back. He had thought that Sherlock had been doing so well. He had been working on cases and he had been going to those meetings. 

“I should have done more,” Greg managed to force out. “ I thought that he was doing better and I thought that giving him those cases would have kept him occupied. He was going to those meetings every week as well.”

“My brother is an addict,” Mycroft managed to force out, his voice full of ice and his eyes were glued to the kitchen window, a thousand-yard stare on him. “He is not going got get better or get cured of this. The chance of relapse is sixty per cent according to some academic studies on addiction. I believe that Sherlock is at an eighty per cent risk from past experience, it is a miracle that he has not damaged himself permanently over the years.”

“How can you be so cold?” Greg asked in disbelief at the disconnected tone that Mycroft used. “That is your brother that you are talking about.”

“I am just being realistic,” Mycroft said. “If I allowed myself to get emotional over my brother, I would not be able to cope. I have stupidly allowed myself to be hopeful over the chances of Sherlock getting better over the years and it only ends in disappointment. I recommend that you do the same.”  
  


Greg placed the mug of tea that made for Mycroft in front of him with more force than necessary. Tea splashed out from over the side and lay on the table in small puddles. “That is your brother that you are talking about,” he said. “He is not going to get better if you keep thinking that he is always going to relapse.” 

“That person who I’m looking after is not my brother,” Mycroft said, his voice almost sounding rather wet. “As far as I am concerned, Sherlock has no longer been my brother since he was seventeen. That is another person who has taken over him. The most that I can do is look after him as I see fit, but as far as I am concerned, I am never going to get my brother back.” 

“Unlike you, Mycroft,” Greg said, defiantly, “I am not going to give up on Sherlock. Is he in the same facility as the last time?”

Mycroft sighed and eventually nodded, physical and emotional exhaustion radiated off him. “He would like it if you visited,” he offered. He tried to smile but it did not reach his eyes which looked rather empty. 

“I’ll go and visit tonight,” Greg said. 

“Thank you,” Mycroft said weakly. 

Greg sipped at his sugary tea and did not say anything for several moments, not sure what he was meant to say. “How are you?” he asked reluctantly. “Honestly. Don’t say that you are fine, I know that you aren’t.” 

Mycroft almost looked surprised about what he had said and Greg could see the phrase ‘ _I’m fine,’_ die before it could leave his mouth. “Tired,” he offered eventually. 

  
“When did you last sleep?” Greg asked. 

“What day is it?”

“Thursday,” Mycroft replied after a moment of thought. 

“That’s over two days,” Greg exclaimed. “You are just as bad as your brother when it comes to sleeping. You are going to bed after you’ve had something to eat. Please tell me that you’ve eaten in the last two days.”

Mycroft did not answer for a moment. “I do not get hungry when I’m working,” he answered. “I’ve had biscuits and a sandwich on Friday afternoon.”

“You are just as bad as your brother when it comes to food,” Greg scolded. “I know that you don’t want me hanging around right now but I’m not going to leave you alone when you are like this. You need to have a friend or at least be around someone who cares for you. You need to be looked after as much as your brother. ”

Mycroft shook his head and the look of surprise of his face would have been endearing in any other situation. “There isn’t...you do not have-”

Greg cut him off before Mycroft could finish off the sentence. “I do,” he said simply. 

Greg was not sure what had come over him or why he had pulled Mycroft up from the kitchen chair by his arm and wrapped him in a tight hug. Mycroft just looked so small in the kitchen chair and his rumpled suit. He simply just looked so exhausted and run down. It pained Greg when he had the realisation that there hadn’t, at least not for a very long time, that someone had looked after Mycroft or that Mycroft allowed himself to be cared for. 

Mycroft did not seem to know how to react to the hug and seemed to be surprised by the action. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides for a moment, unsure about what he was meant to do until they wrapped around Greg’s back. 

He seemed to be out of practice on hugging people, that itself seemed to break Greg’s heart even more. He did not know if it was even possible for his heart to be shattered by something as simple as that.

Greg looked at Mycroft’s blue eyes and he noticed the scattering of freckles across his nose. They would have been easy enough to overlook but Greg could count them all. It felt inappropriate that even though Mycroft was not himself, Greg still thought that Mycroft looked beautiful even in his rumpled state. 

Mycroft pulled back from the hug with a puzzled expression on his face but seemed unable to untangle away from the hug. “Gregory…”

“You do deserve to be cared for about,” Greg murmured. “You do, Mycroft. You have no idea how much I care for you.”

Mycroft did not say anything for a long moment and he seemed to be deep in thought. Greg could hear the soft noise of the clock hands moving and the hum of the fridge. Mycroft looked into his eyes with an unreadable expression on his face, almost thoughtful. It almost felt as if Mycroft was looking right through him with those piercing eyes almost in wonder as if he had written Mycroft’s favourite book or he had hung up each star in the sky himself. 

Greg opened up his mouth to speak but he seemed to be unable to find any words and struggled to connect any two thoughts in his head together. He had hardly a moment to collect his thoughts together before Mycroft suddenly kissed him.

It made Greg think of the first kiss that they had exchanged years ago, rather clumsy as their noses and teeth clashed into another but still rather wonderful at the same time. 

As much as Greg knew that this was not the best thing to do and that Mycroft was not himself, he could not pull away. Kissing Mycroft felt forbidden, almost sinful and yet Greg could not stop. He had never experienced anything as wonderful as snogging Mycroft Holmes in a kitchen. 

  
A part of him wondered how much of this kiss was real. He wondered how much Mycroft would regret this when he was considerably less vulnerable and fragile at this moment. As much as Greg had thought about kissing Mycroft over the years, he wished that it was in a different situation. It would not be like this, he could not stop himself kissing Mycroft regardless. He doubted that anything could make him stop. 

He managed to momentarily stop and pull himself away from Mycroft, who was pressed against the fridge door. He was looking somewhat more ruffled than before, his lips red and kiss bitten, breathing hard to catch his breath. He looked almost offended that Greg had pulled away from him. 

“This is not a good time,” Greg managed to say. “I can stick on the kettle and you should probably head to bed.”

Mycroft shook his head and his hands found their way to the hem of Greg’s shirt, pushing it up greedily. “There has never been good timing for us,” he said, “the only thing that matters is this moment.”

  
Greg knew that he should have been a gentleman and stopped, as much as he knew that it was not the right time, he could not have brought himself away from this moment. He placed his hands on either side of Mycroft’s cheeks and kissed him again without thinking, completely caught up in the moment. 

* * *

Mycroft tapped his cigarette and watched the pieces of ash float down from the window as if they were the most interesting sight that he had ever seen. He had not spoken since he had slipped out of bed and wrapped himself in his silk dressing gown, the weight of the world must have crept upon his shoulders and his mind had grown heavy once more. 

Greg stretched out on the bed, the expensive sheets making a half-hearted effort to cover him. He could hardly connect his thoughts together and did not know how he felt or how he was supposed to have felt. 

He knew that a normal person was meant to have regretted what he had done but he did not in the slightest, he only wished that this moment happened in better circumstances. He hoped that Mycroft felt the same way but he had been too afraid to ask. 

Mycroft looked over his shoulder at him, his hair looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. He looked younger at this moment. A welcome sight if Greg had to be perfectly honest, Mycroft had grown considerably older over the last month and increasingly worn down. 

“Do you want a puff?” Mycroft asked, rather lazily.

Greg nodded and wrapped the spare dressing gown that Mycroft had thrown on the bed for him around himself and took the offered cigarette from Mycroft. “Do you...want to talk about this?” he eventually asked once he had summoned up the courage. 

Mycroft hesitated for a moment before he spoke and ran his hand through his hair. “I do not regret what happened,” he eventually said. “Do you?”

“I wish that it was in better circumstances,” Greg said truthfully. “I did not exactly plan for this to happen. I was going to be a shoulder for you to cry on, not someone to go in-between your legs.” 

Mycroft let out an undignified snort and tried to give him a serious look but it had little impact on Greg. “You can finish off that cigarette.” 

Greg finished off the cigarette with several long draws and scuffed it out against the brick wall of Mycroft’s house. He took longer than he would to finish off the cigarette in the attempt to gather his thoughts. “What should we do now?” he asked. 

“As much as this was not a mistake for me, Gregory,” Mycroft said, uncertain. “I am positive that you will think differently later on.”

“I won’t,” Greg protested. “You can't tell me how I feel or how I am going to feel.”

Mycroft sighed and wrapped the dressing gown around himself tightly, his arms wound around himself, almost as if he could replicate the feeling of a hug. “I know that things like this end in disaster,” he murmured. “We should be focusing on Sherlock, we need to be taking care of him.” 

“Why can’t no one take care of you?” Greg asked. “I do like you, not just this stupid idea of you. Let me get to know you, I’ll do whatever this takes. I know that you are scared.”

Mycroft opened up his mouth and closed it again. He sighed and tried to cover it up with a half-hearted attempt as a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I think that we are going to be better off as just friends, Greg,” he said. “I know that it is going to be difficult and as much as I would like more...it would benefit Sherlock more if we are just friends.”

Greg tried to ignore the sinking feeling of disappointment that started to pool in his stomach. He swallowed hard and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “The timing is never going to be there for us, is it?” Greg said with a bitter laugh. “Right person, wrong time. It is always going to be like that.”

Mycroft’s voice was unusually tight and he could not look at Greg as he spoke. He gripped onto Greg’s hand and squeezed it tightly as if it was the only thing that kept him tied to the earth and stopped him floating away. “I’m afraid so,” he murmured. “I do wish that the circumstances were very different."

“Me too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the support for the story, I wouldn't be writing without my readers!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“I was hoping for something interesting, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, still gripping his sleeve. “It is horrid to think that my brother was involved with you. What is the situation now?”
> 
> “Don’t you already know the answer?” Greg asked. '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C.W. Mental health.

“He is just in his room,” the receptionist said, as she handed Greg a sticker with the word ‘ **VISITOR,’** written in large letters. “He is just in the same room as the last time he was staying with us. I assume that you know where to go.”

Greg gave the receptionist a tight smile and thanked her quietly, pressing the sticker to the front of his shirt. He managed to locate Sherlock’s room without needing to think about where to go, a bag of Sherlock’s belongings in his hands. Mycroft had awkwardly given him the plastic bag just as he was leaving the door, unable to look at him and their attempts at conversation stunted and uncomfortable. 

He had gone into Sherlock’s flat in Montegue Street with the spare key that Mycroft had given to him months ago to save him breaking down the door when he was doing the drugs search. He had picked up a few extra pieces of clothes for Sherlock, a few books, and had picked up Sherlock’s violin for him among with a few other bits and pieces. He had probably brought more than he needed, he kept telling himself that Sherlock would be out in a week or so but he knew that the reality would be different. 

He went to Sherlock’s room and found it empty. Greg placed the bags on the bed before he started to fill the drawers with Sherlock’s clothes and placed the books and cold case files on the bedside table in the attempt to be useful and to make the room feel more home-like. 

He could hardly stand being in the room, no matter how much he attempted to make it home-likee and comfortable for Sherlock. He hoped that this would be the last time that Sherlock would be in this room, he did not know if he could handle Sherlock taking more steps backward. He did not know if his heart could take it. 

It never got easier to deal with each time that Sherlock stumbled and it was growing more difficult to be somewhat optimistic about the situation. He wouldn’t give up on Sherlock, he wasn’t unlike Mycroft, who had seemed somewhat resigned that Sherlock was not going to improve. 

Once he had was satisfied enough with Sherlock’s room, Greg wondered around the corridors. It was by instinct that Greg found himself in the music therapy room. Other than his room and the canteen, it was the room that Sherlock had spent the most time in. 

Sherlock had his back to the door and he was playing one of the centre’s violins. A sad, melancholy tune that Sherlock was creating outright from his fingertips. It was somewhat beautiful, occasionally he would falter or a note seemed out of place.

“It is beautiful,” Greg said instead of a greeting, “It is so sad though.”

  
Sherlock put down the bow and stopped playing, his back was still turned to him. “I thought that I would make use of my mood,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “The most creative forms of art and literature were created in a time of great suffering.”

  
Greg shook his head and sat down on the piano bench. “I don’t think that is a requirement to make something great,” he said.”Depression and misery isn’t a requirement to be creative. You can make something great when you are happy as well. You should try it sometime.” 

Sherlock let out a humourless laugh. “You are far too optimistic about the world,” he said. “I’m amazed that you’ve not given up. It would save you a lot of time and effort.”

Greg opened up the violin case and passed Sherlock his Stradivarius. “I thought that you would prefer your own violin than this one,” he said. “I want you to write something when you are in a good mood. Something happy. It’s a challenge. I’ll give you fifty quid if you manage it.” 

Sherlock took his violin and held it close to his chest, the one that he had been playing before left neglected on the top of the piano. “What occasion would I be writing this song for?” he asked. “Would it be a song that used to celebrate your divorce?” 

Greg let out a chuckle despite the situation, mostly out of relief that he could see a hint of Sherlock instead of the shell that he had become. “I don’t care what it is for,” he said. “It has to be cheerful and you have to be happy when you write it. How are you feeling by the way?”

Sherlock seemed to retreat into himself with his question and shrugged. Greg wondered how many times that he had been asked how many times Sherlock had been asked it today. It was a redundant question but he never knew what to say in this situation. He pulled out a slightly greasy bag from his bag, the chips soggy and lukewarm.

“It is a perk when you feel like this,” Greg said, offering the bag to Sherlock. “You are allowed chips. It is much better than the food that you get in here.”

“It is because of you that I associate depression and these types of thoughts with chips,” Sherlock commented, grabbing several chips with his bony hand. “You bought me chips the evening that we first met.”

  
“And like a stray cat, you stayed once I fed you,” Greg replied between a mouthful of a chip. “As I said, chips are a perk. I’ll keep bringing you chips until the feeling goes away. I’ve done it before and I’ll keep doing it.”

“How is Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, breaking the oppressive silence that grown between them. “I know that it annoys him when I mess up.”

Greg shook his head and sighed, scrubbing his hand through his hair. He wished that he knew what to say, he knew that Sherlock had probably deduced something from him. “He is just worried,” Greg said simply, not wanting to give anything away. “It breaks his heart that you struggle so much with this. You are going to beat it this time though, the two of us are with you every step.”

Sherlock chuckled wetly and folded himself on one of the plastic chairs. His feet up on the seat and his arms curled around himself. His jumper hanging off him more than Greg would have liked. “It would be much better if-”

Greg cut him off before he finished, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock despite Sherlock’s protests without a second thought. “Your life is not your own,” he said. “I’ve told you that so many times and I’m thinking that you need it tattooed on you. Keep your hands off it, your own death is something that will happen to everyone else. You won’t miss your own life if you give it away, but I will. Mycroft will.”

The silence had become deafening. Greg held onto him until he could feel Sherlock nod stiffly against his shoulder. 

“You are not my father,” Sherlock grumbled. 

  
“I’m much better than your one ever was,” Greg replied without a second thought, his voice so bitter that is sounded foreign. “At least I’m here unlike your family. I won’t be leaving you either. I’m not giving up on you.” 

Sherlock did not say anything for a long moment, he seemed reluctant for Greg to move away from him. He kept a hold onto his jacket sleeve as if it was the only thing that was keeping him on his earth. Almost reminding Greg that he was still here, that he hadn’t completely gone away just yet. “What is going on in your life?” he asked eventually. “I’m fed up of people only talking about me. Tell me something that I won’t know.”

Greg thought carefully and he had considered telling Sherlock a story about work or marriage counselling. He didn’t though. The words slipped out without him thinking, sounding foreign on his tongue. “I’m bisexual,” he said. 

The words sounded strange and he could hardly believe that he had used them to describe himself. He had locked them away for years inside himself, almost as if he was ashamed and afraid to let them slip out. He felt so free. 

“I was hoping for something interesting, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, still gripping his sleeve. “It is horrid to think that my brother was involved with you. What is the situation now?”

“Don’t you already know the answer?” Greg asked. 

“It is much more interesting if you told me,” Sherlock said with a raised eyebrow. 

“It is far too complicated,” Greg said with full honesty. 

“Isn’t life supposed to be complicated?” Sherlock asked. 

“Play me something. It doesn’t have to be happy this time,” Greg said in the attempt to avoid the subject. “

  
Sherlock gave a singular nod and picked up the violin, tucking it under his chin. The Bach that he played was beautiful and helped to drown out the deafening thoughts in the part of his brain that was dedicated to Mycroft Holmes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and your comments! I fancied a Sherlock and Greg centred chapter, I'll be back to Greg and Mycroft in the next chapter


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if that could help him make up his mind about going into the car. He knew that there was nothing to think about it, he knew that when he saw Mycroft, he would always go to him. There were no questions about it. If they were another country, another year, another universe, Greg knew that they would always go to him.'

It was with great reluctance that Greg left Sherlock that evening. He had already stayed past visiting hours and no one had come to shoo him out or seemed to have noticed that he was even there when members of staff had come to check up on Sherlock throughout his visitor when he went to the canteen to get something to eat for the two of them. 

He had tucked Sherlock up in bed at the end of his visit once he had read out a cold case file almost as if he was reading to a child. Greg knew that he was fussing too much and that Sherlock was not a child but he had to feel as if he was being useful. He felt almost father-like when it came to Sherlock at times even if he was not much older than he was. He had always wanted to be a dad, he liked to think that he would have been a good one. They were never on the cards with Karen and were never more than a thought when he was with Andy. 

Greg went to the reception desk and signed himself out, ensuring with the receptionist that he was registered as Sherlock’s emergency contact along with Mycroft. He had placed himself as Sherlock’s emergency contact not long after they first met, he had always been somewhat protective of Sherlock. It made sense to do so, Mycroft was often away for work or Sherlock refused to deal with him, he was only slightly more tolerant of him than his brother. 

As he left the building, Greg saw a familiar black car waiting for him. The door opened and he managed to get a glance of an arm and a familiar ring on a long finger. Mycroft. 

Greg stopped in his tracks for a moment and took in a deep breath. He shoved his hands in his pockets so deep as if he could willingly disappear into them as he tried to think about what to do. He wanted to go into the car but he did not know if he had anything to say to Mycroft. Greg had plenty to say to Mycroft, countless things. He did not think that there would be a right moment to ever say them or if he knew the words to express them. His sentences would be ended right before he could even get the words out. 

Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if that could help him make up his mind about going into the car. He knew that there was nothing to think about, he knew that when he saw Mycroft, he would always go to him. There were no questions about it. If they were another country, another year, another universe, Greg knew that they would always go to him, regardless of the situation or how much his heart stumbled. He did not know if it was fate or a magnetic force that tried to align them together. 

He went into the car and forced himself to stare at the driver’s partition in front of him. He did not trust himself to look at Mycroft. He had caught a glance at him when he had entered the car and it physically pained him to do so. He was wrapped up like a present that Greg was forbidden to open before Christmas and Greg could only focus on the freckles on his nose. Mycroft had a serious look on his face, his eyebrow raise but the softness of his face was there. 

It was impossible not to see the softness of Mycroft after what happened earlier. How they kissed as if the world would collapse upon them if they stopped. The noises he made as Greg kissed the galaxy of freckles on his skin as they undressed another. How he stood by the window smoking in his dressing gown without a care in the world for a few precious moments, the weight slowly falling upon his shoulders as he watched the ash from his cigarette float down. 

He looked ridiculously handsome with every second. Greg wanted to look away even if the sight pained him as if he had been staring at the sun for too long but it was impossible to do so. 

Mycroft seemed to be painfully naive about how beautiful he was and the effect that he had on Greg. Greg had found it frustrating ever since they had fallen into another’s lives. He often wondered if Mycroft knew what he did to him and was pretending to be oblivious. He must have been doing so, someone as intelligent as Mycroft would know the effect that he had on him. 

“How is Sherlock?” Mycroft asked once the car started to move. 

Greg risked a glance at Mycroft, his eyes were glued to the window as if he was fixated by it even though it was tinted. Greg sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s...as fine as he is going to be,” he said, trying to find the right words. “He is in the right place, that’s all I can say at the moment. He’s low.”

Mycroft did not say anything for a long moment and steepled his fingers under his chin in deep thought. Greg briefly wondered if he had gone into that Mind Palace that Sherlock had explained to him and was trying to delete Sherlock from his brain, trying to remove any of the fraying ties that he had with his brother. 

“You aren’t going to give up on him,” Greg said, grabbing Mycroft by his shoulders and he looked right into his eyes even if it was almost painful. “You might think that he is a lost cause but he isn’t. Your brother is a great man. He isn’t just some addict that you happen to know, he is your brother and he is needing all the support that he needs. He needs his big brother.”

Mycroft looked startled and quietly apologised. His eyes lingered for a moment before he quickly withdrew them and looked at his hands. 

Greg cleared his throat and apologised. “ Sherlock is just needing all the support that he needs,” he tried to explain. “He’s only got the two of us as his support system and he’s got his meetings. We can’t give up on him even if it is...difficult.”

Mycroft nodded wordlessly and stared out of the tinted window. His hand rested on the seat and Greg grabbed it without a second thought in the attempt to get some comfort. 

“Who is supporting you through this?” Mycroft asked quietly, his voice hardly a whisper. “You are going through a divorce and you seem to be intent to look after my brother and me among with the other problems you are dealing with. It seems impossible to do it on your own.”

“It’s much easier to focus on this problem than my own,” Greg said. “It’s a coping mechanism for idiots, that’s what the therapist says.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow questioning him but did not say anything, almost unsure of what he was meant to say. It was not something people normally talked about, nothing that would be said over a pint with his friends or with Karen. 

“Been seeing one for years,” Greg tried to explain somewhat awkwardly. “It does help a good bit, my work is just...brutal and it’s just good to talk, you know? I’ve been going to those meetings for the friends and families of addicts. It makes it easier to deal with Sherlock and be there for him.”

Mycroft seemed to defeat in his seat almost with the realisation of what Sherlock’s problem was doing to other people. Greg knew that if he was struggling, Mycroft must have been crushed with the weight of the world on his shoulders from dealing with Sherlock. Greg often felt guilty that he struggled or that he was drained by the situation, he knew that it was nothing compared to how Mycroft must have felt. 

“I’ve given Sherlock a challenge, a bet,” Greg said once he could feel the silence pressing down on him and he felt somewhat catastrophic. 

“What sort of a challenge?” Mycroft asked, he seemed to brace himself for his reply. 

“He has to write a song and play it on his violin for me,” Greg said. “It has to be cheerful and he has to be happy when he's writing it. I’ve got fifty quid on the line.”

“Do you honestly think that Sherlock is going to follow through?” Mycroft asked quietly. 

“It’s a stupid thing, I know,” Greg said with a sigh. “The thing is with Sherlock is that he doesn’t like to lose. I think that it is going to be something that keeps him going. He would hate to lose to me even if it is a stupid thing. ” 

“I admire your optimism.” Mycroft gave him a tight smile that did not reach his ears. 

“You should try it sometime,” Greg suggested. "Find something that is going to keep you going. "

“I do not play an instrument,” Mycroft said. 

“What do you do for fun?” Greg asked. “Don’t tell me that ‘I do not have time for fun, Gregory,'” he said, imitating Mycroft’s accent. “You used to go clubs in Soho and dance. There must be something you do to unwind.” 

Mycroft thought carefully for a long moment before he spoke. “I like to read and I have tried to write in the past. I’ve never been too good at it. " 

“Write something then,” Greg said. “Fifty quid if you manage to write something and you are happy by the end of it. I reckon by the time that you’ve got a book written, Sherlock is going to be over this and the two of you will be happy. It will be the thing that gets you through this. You need to keep thinking about the future and going forward, it makes life easier to deal with in this situation.”

“I’m not a good writer,” Mycroft said, shaking his head as if the suggestion was utterly ridiculous. 

  
“Learn to get good then,” Greg shrugged. “I’ll start looking at writing courses for you, I’ll get you a book that teaches you how to write.”  
  


Mycroft let out a chuckle, his smile still tight but it was genuine.

“What is going to get you through this?” Mycroft asked, breaking the silence that had grown between them.

Greg shrugged and shook his head. He had little idea, he just tended to focus on getting through the day. I had been the easiest thing to do when he felt flat and exhausted.

“You are going to go away with me in six months, a years time, however long it is going to take for Sherlock to get better and he is happy, ” he said eventually after careful consideration. “It doesn’t have to go anywhere...just as friends. I would like to get to know you better, only if you would let me.”

Mycroft did not say anything for several moments before he nodded. “It has been a long time since I’ve taken a holiday,” he murmured. “1987 was the last time I took a holiday without worrying about Sherlock too much, I was on a university trip.”

“I think that you need to go to a travel agent then and start planning,” Greg grinned. “The two of us could certainly do with a holiday after being in this mess.”

Mycroft let out a sound of agreement. “This is quite possibly the strangest motivation to get through a difficult time,” he said. 

Greg shrugged. “It's a coping mechanism for idiots.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated and loved!
> 
> Unexpected update this time around, I thought that I would give myself a bit of a writing holiday next week as it is my birthday and I'm trying to work on a few projects. Hopefully will post soon!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg placed his hand's hand brushed over his as he reached over for the last mouthful of cake. There was a jolt of electricity that rushed through him and the world seemed to stop for a brief moment.
> 
> Mycroft looked up at Greg who seemed to be oblivious what had just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, just a quick update to let everyone know that I've changed my username on this on and Tumblr. After the recent JKR nonsense, I changed my username, not wanting to be associated with Harry Potter or her work anymore even if it was inspired by the Starkid musicals. It's now Ayla221bee on Tumblr and Twitter if anyone is interested.

_ 2007 _

With a heavy sigh, Mycroft removed the page from his notebook and threw it into the recycling bin. It had been the fifth time that he had done it that day and he doubted that it would be his last. He knew that he would be out of paper before he could manage to produce a single good paragraph. 

He had little idea why he had decided to take Greg up on his silly challenge to write something. He doubted that Sherlock’s battles with addiction would be over by the time that he wrote something, perhaps at most, there would be a ceasefire at the most. It was more of the notion of being happy once he had written something that he would be happy that made him take up Greg’s suggestion. 

Greg made attaining happiness sound so simple as if it was the easiest thing in the world. It was impossible not to believe him with how he talked about it, almost guaranteeing that he would be happy eventually. That one day, he would tell Greg that he was happy and that he would mean it.

  
Mycroft found himself looking forward to that day, the idea had grown on him over these last few months. He had found the notion of being happy ridiculous but it had crept up on him slowly but surely and he found himself almost hopeful for the day that it would happen. 

  
He did not know how long it would take him but Greg kept reassuring him that it would arrive eventually, he had to be patient for it. For once in his life, Mycroft found himself believing in the impossible and he had allowed himself to be hopeful. 

He found it rather terrifying, hope had always lead to heartbreak and disappointment. He had found himself more willing to deal with those fears and the pain, Greg had instilled a begrudging sense of hope in him over the last few months. It was with Greg’s optimism that Mycroft started to reluctantly believe that Sherlock would be able to manage this time and get through it. For the first time in over a decade, Mycroft allowed himself to hope that Sherlock would be able to say that he was fine and mean it, that he could hold the ceasefire with his addition permanently.

His pen hovered above the notebook, hesitating as he realised that he did not know how to finish off his sentence. He had been doing rather well and he had managed to get half a paragraph written before he had come to a halt. 

Mycroft sighed and tried to think of the right word with a large amount of difficulty. He put down his pen and sipped tea as if that could provide some inspiration but struggled to come up with anything. 

He wondered why he had taken up Greg’s silly suggestion that he should write something, he was hardly good at it. It bothered him greatly that he had difficulties with something as simple as writing, he had never not been good at anything that he had tried his hand at apart from when he was in the horrific physical education lessons in school. He had believed that he lost his sense of imagination when he turned eight at the oldest. He had hoped that the amount of hardship that he went through over the years would allow him to write a masterpiece that was worthy of Dickens. 

He had tried to change his surroundings to see if it could inspire him, it was a common piece of advice that came up in books that he had read about writing and Greg had suggested to him when he had complained about how it was difficult to write in his home office. He had made his way around London’s cafes for inspiration and spent considerably more time drinking tea and eating cake instead of writing. 

He had believed that the life of an author suited him well, he got to sit around with his own thoughts all day and he was never too far away from a mug of tea. 

Mycroft drew a line through the paragraph that he was working on with a sigh, removed the page from his notebook, and attempted to start again. After several moments of trying to conjure up an idea and having little success, Mycroft put the lid on his pen with a sigh and removed his glasses. 

He knew that there was little point in attempting to write especially when he was not good at it. He checked his watch and put his notebook into his bag, Greg would be meeting him in the coffee shop in the next few minutes after his meeting, 

He tried to ignore the surge that he felt in his chest that always happened right before he met up with Greg. It almost felt as if it would burst out of his chest on occasion when he was in the same room as Greg, no matter how many times that he told himself that the two of them could only be friends and that the timing would never be there for him. 

  
He had still found himself clinging that shred of hope, no matter how much heartbreak that it causes him. Greg had been on better terms with Karen, marriage counselling had been working with and he and Karen were on better terms apparently. He did not know the details and he did not want to know them. It felt like he had been stabbed through the chest with a shard of ice when Greg mentioned that he had to cancel their dinner meeting as he had plans with Karen. 

Greg clapped him on the shoulder as he walked into the coffee shop, dressed in his leather jacket and a pair of jeans that suited him well. Mycroft allowed himself to admire him for a moment, his eyes lingered on Greg’s chest for a moment before he quickly averted his eyes. 

“Attempting to write?” Greg asked, nodding towards the pen and the pair of glasses that were left lying on the table. “Any luck?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I never do when I attempt to write.” 

Greg squeezed his shoulder and had a sympathetic smile on his face. “You’ll get there eventually,” he said. “It will only be a matter of time before you get something done. Did you have a look at those courses I’ve sent you? They might be some good.”

Mycroft made a non-committal noise. He had looked at the leaflets that Greg had given him and quickly stashed them away, almost mortified with the prospect of taking a writing course for beginners in a church hall in the evenings after work. He had reluctantly bought some books that were meant to help writing, he stashed them away in his flat out of sight out of embarrassment of Sherlock seeing them and making comment. 

“How was the meeting?” Mycroft asked, changing the subject. 

Greg sat down on the chair opposite him and shrugged off his coat, it had taken Mycroft considerably effort to not look down at his chest again. “Sherlock sat through,” he said. “He got his six months coin. Grumbled a good bit when he got it, claimed that he would rather be working on his experiment than there.” 

Mycroft chewed at his bottom lip in the attempt to prevent the ghost of the smile that wanted to reveal himself. He allowed himself to feel hopeful and somewhat optimistic for just a moment, he allowed himself to believe that Sherlock was finally going to get over this hurdle.

“He is sounding much more like himself,” Mycroft offered, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “He has been so awfully quiet recently. I knew that he was starting to do better when he was complaining about the food in his last stay in the centre.”

“I think that he is actually going to beat it this time,” Greg said, optimistically and with a grin. “He’s doing so well. He’s not been able to write anything too cheerful just yet, he’s getting there though.”

“Where is he now?” Mycroft asked. 

“He’s with this old woman he’s surprisingly chummy with, Mrs H? I can’t remember it off the top of my head. ” Greg said. “He’s gone around to visit her for some tea. I’ve met her before, she’s surprisingly lovely and just adores your brother.”

“He has never mentioned this woman before,” Mycroft commented, fiddling with the glasses on the table. 

“Doubt that there is anything to worry about,” Greg replied. “He is an adult and she seems to be a good influence on him. He gives her a bit of company, having a bit of trouble with her husband from what Sherlock’s mentioned. He didn’t go much into it. I don’t know if she is his sponsor or something. Whatever it is, he’s been happier since he’s met her.”

Mycroft nodded and silently stashed away in his Mind Palace, he would have to do some research on this woman when he had access to his work computer and the databases. “Would you like anything?” he asked politely. 

“It’s my treat this time,” Greg said, standing up. “You’ve paid for dinner last time. Fancy getting a bit of that chocolate cake? It looks amazing. Just tea?”

  
“Thank you,” Mycroft smiled.

He watched Greg walk over to the counter and forced his eyes to look at the wood grain on the table when he noticed that Greg’s jeans were ridiculously fitted on him. He swallowed hard and scolded himself for acting like a teenager. It had been increasingly difficult to compartmentalise his feelings for Lestrade recently especially with the amount of time they spent with another. 

Each time that Mycroft told himself that he and Greg were just friends, his desire for Greg seemed to intensify. He was like forbidden fruit and Mycroft wanted nothing more than to have him.

He tried to tell himself that it would only end in disaster and that it was not worth ruining the steady friendship that the two had fallen into. He had thought about telling Greg what he felt several times or kissing him again but nothing ever happened. He knew that he would have to take those feelings with the grave with him.

He often wondered if it was better to speak or to die. He had not come up with the answer just yet. 

Mycroft forced himself to smile when Greg walked back to the table with the slice of cake in his hands and two forks. 

  
“The girl behind the counter says that there is a lack of plates at the moment,” he said in explanation, “The dishwasher is buggered completely.”

Mycroft nodded and accepted the fork that Greg passed to him. “How have you been this week?” he asked. 

Greg shrugged and put a forkful of cake in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Uneventful,” he said. “Not too bad, London’s criminals seem to be taking holiday at the moment. I’ve had to catch up with paperwork. That support meeting I went to was good, they would do you a lot of good, I think.”    
  
Mycroft made a non-committal noise. He had been to a few meetings at Greg’s suggestion, he hadn’t been to a meeting technically, ‘Mike,’ an accountant had been attending. He did not have the strength to go to the meetings as himself and doubt that he ever would. It felt too much like admitting failure in his personal life, that he had been unable to manage and cope with the problem himself and needed support. He did not speak in those meetings and sat quietly in the back, trying to see how Greg benefited from them. 

“I talk to someone occasionally,” Mycroft offered a half-truth. He spent most of his bi-monthly work mandated session with a phycologist, complaining about what Sherlock had been up to and what experiments he had been doing on the rare occasion that he did talk. He did not trust Dr Miler after her ridiculous idea that he might be depressed. 

She could annoyingly see his inefficiencies no matter how he tried to cover them up. How he struggled to sleep and how his weight had fluctuated over the years as a result of the fall out of Sherlock’s habit and work-related stress. He reluctantly had to admit that it was somewhat helpful to talk to someone that was not connected personally to his situation with his brother.

“I saw that there is an eighties night in that club that we used to go to,” Greg said, changing the subject. “Fancy going to that?”

Mycroft shook his head, his nose wrinkled in disgust. “There is nothing appealing about going back to a night club. We are far too old for it.”

“Thought that it might be fun,” Greg shrugged. “There is a Queen tribute act and there is a David Bowie impersonator. Thought that it could be our way of celebrating, Sherlock’s six months.”

“I’d rather the two of us go for dinner,” Mycroft suggested, stabbing a piece of cake with his fork. “Start looking at holiday brochures.” 

Greg grinned and barked out a laugh. “I knew that some of that optimism would rub off on you.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Is that what you are calling it?” 

Greg shrugged and ate another piece of cake. “Can’t I just be thrilled that you are allowing yourself to experience some happiness?” he teased. “It’s not often that you are in a good mood.”

  
“I am when I am with you,” Mycroft murmured. 

The two fell into an easy debate about where they should go on holiday together. Mycroft hardly said anything, worried that he would somehow jinx things and Sherlock’s six months would go down the drain. 

Greg had suggested that they go on a mini-break together, a weekend in Edinburgh. The idea of leaving London for the weekend sounded dangerous, he worried that Sherlock would suddenly fall into old habits and that the world would fall if he left London. 

“He’s an adult,” Greg had told him several times. “Sherlock can make his own choices and I think that he is going to be fine. He’s got Mrs H keeping an eye on him as well. You are allowed to have time for yourself.”   
  


Mycroft chewed his lip thoughtfully, unsure. 

  
“It might help you write something,” Greg commented. “You might feel inspired by it.” 

Mycroft nodded and let out the breath that he had been unaware that he had been holding. “I will look into train tickets,” he said eventually, wanting to please Greg.  


Greg’s grin was contagious.   


  
Greg placed his hand's hand brushed over his as he reached over for the last mouthful of cake. There was a jolt of electricity that rushed through him and the world seemed to stop for a brief moment.  


Mycroft looked up at Greg who seemed to be oblivious what had just happened.  



	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'No matter how much he tried, he could not write down a single good sentence. He kept looking over his shoulder to see what Greg was up to even if it only caused a strange feeling in his chest, he briefly wondered if it was a heart attack or indigestion. He wanted to believe it so much. It was much easier to believe that lie than admit that a wave of disappointment had crashed over him and that he felt that his heart might have developed a crack or two in it after seeing Greg being happy with Karen.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Repost of chapter 15 after some more editing and some extra bits added on.

It had been much easier to get on with Karen ever since the topic of divorce had finally been brought to the surface. It had been the most civil they had been in years and it had been the first time that they had been able to have a proper conversation without arguing in months. Greg found himself enjoying his time with Karen, it had surprised him greatly at first. They had barely spoken in months, they never had anything to talk about and were unable to speak to another with arguing. Once they started to get the ball rolling for the divorce, they almost seemed to become almost friends.

They had been discussing the divorce in cafes and restaurants. The two of them decided that it was best to be in neutral territory when discussing who got the telly or who got to keep the car, or what was going to happen to the flat, if it was going to be sold or if Greg was continuing to stay there, among other matters. 

It had been surprisingly easy to talk about the upcoming divorce once the elephant had been addressed. It made him wonder why they had been so hesitant to breach the subject before. He had yet to tell his parents that he and Karen were ending things, he had been providing them with a fictionalised account of his marriage for the last two years. It was easy enough for the two of them to be on best behaviour for the pantomime of family dinner even during the disaster of Christmas dinner that happened each year. 

He met up with Karen before his weekend away with Mycroft. She had arranged to meet up with him in the cafe that he and Mycroft frequented on her lunch break, it was the closest to the school that she was taught at. She looked good, happier than she used to be in the last yeas of their marriage. He had almost forgotten how beautiful she was, he wondered how he had managed to grow immune to her green eyes and that wicked smile of hers, it what made him approach her at the supermarket all those years ago. 

He wondered if he had dulled considerably over the years in her eyes, if that was the reason why their relationship had become so broken that no amount of gold paint could repair the cracks, like the pottery that he had seen in the British Museum one time. 

“You are going to Edinburgh?” Karen asked between sips of her cappuccino. “Didn’t we talk about going there one time?”

Greg thought carefully and broke his scone into small bits with his fingers. “Hmm,” he hummed. “I think that we were going to go but Katie had just been born.” 

“Are you still going to be at the birthday party?” She asked, tucking a red curl behind her ear. “She would hate it if you aren’t there. You are her favourite uncle.” 

“There is nothing stopping me,” Greg said. “Not unless you mind too much. I don’t want to make things awkward for you.”

She shook her head and smiled at him, it did not quite reach her eyes. It was the only a trace of sadness that she seemed to have about the upcoming divorce that she let show. She would be picking up the rest of her things from their flat when he was away, she said that it would be much easier for the two of them.

“It would be a shame that Katie would lose her favourite uncle if we could not be civil towards another,” she said. “We are both adults and you would be heartbroken if you couldn’t see her. I know how much you wanted to be a dad and put that love into her.”

Greg took in a breath and reached over to grab her hand from across the table. He often found it amazing that how he could forget about the pain but the ache still felt fresh not matter of many years had passed. It was around that time that the first unfixable cracks had started to form in his marriage. 

“We can only go forward,” he said, giving her a tight smile. “We’ve got Katie to overly spoil, besides, I can’t even look after a plant. I did kill your cactus.” 

She let out a snort of a laugh, Greg missed the noise. He liked to think that it was one of his favourite things about her, she always did like his jokes. She seemed to find him funny again once they had time apart. It made Greg wonder if they were meant to be just friends all those years ago, she did stop laughing at him once they got married. 

"So," she said, pushing a curl behind her ear, "Who is this Mycroft?"

* * *

Mycroft kept his eyes glued to the notebook, he did not trust himself to look up from the page. He knew that he should have paid more attention to the wedding photo when he was in Greg's flat even if it had pained him considerably. 

He had barely thought anything about the red-haired woman who was in the cafe when he had walked in for an early lunch and to get some writing done. He had deduced her, only for a moment, he had been awfully wrapped up with the idea that he had been pondering on when he was at work. He should have noticed and scolded himself when he saw Greg sit at the table with her. 

He could not allow himself to leave, no matter how much he wanted to. The two of them were sitting by the entrance and it would be impossible to leave unnoticed. He knew that he would have to stay until Greg left the cafe. 

He was thankfully tucked away at the back, behind the counter of the cafe. A large plant obscured him and it was easy enough to blend into the somewhat busy cafe. Greg seemed to be wrapped up in his conversation with his ex-wife to even look up as if they were the only people left in the universe. The two shared a piece of cake together on separate plates. She laughed loudly at a joke that Greg made and he looked rather proud to have gotten that reaction out of her.

Mycroft forced himself to keep his eyes glued to the notebook and tried to make himself write. He tried to think of a suitable idea, one that would allow him to be taken away from the cafe and into whatever his imagination allowed him to go. His pen hovered above the page as he tried to think of the perfect sentence which would allow him to escape reality. 

No matter how much he tried, he could not write down a single good sentence. He kept looking over his shoulder to see what Greg was up to even if it only caused a strange feeling in his chest, he briefly wondered if it was a heart attack or indigestion. He wanted to believe it so much. It was much easier to believe that lie than admit that a wave of disappointment had crashed over him and that he felt that his heart might have developed a crack or two in it after seeing Greg being happy with Karen.

He wondered if they were talking about getting together again. That they were planning to give their marriage a second shot, no matter how the odds were set against them. He wondered if Karen was actually Greg’s right person and they were just in an awful time. 

The thought pained him horribly, a sharp pain that settled in his chest. He knew that the timing for Greg and himself was never going to be there, but he had liked the idea that he and Greg were the right person for another and timing was just not right for them. He had hoped that Greg would have been willing for it to be right. Mycroft had been willing to wait for him for years and would have continued to do so indefinitely. 

He hardly knew how he would cope with the weekend in Edinburgh with Greg. It seemed more impossible just to be friends with Greg these days. Mycroft knew that he just could not just like Greg these days. It had become more evident. 

He quickly left the cafe once Greg eventually left the table and kissed her on the cheek. The hug seemed to linger for a moment and she gave him a fond smile. He could not look away at their parting, he felt as he had been turned into stone and unable to move or avert his eyes. No matter how much the sight pained him, Mycroft was unable to look away. 

  
He packed his suitcase for the weekend away after procrastinating for several hours, trying to think of a suitable excuse to be called into the office. It would have been easier for him to pick up the phone and make the excuse now instead of forcing himself to go on holiday with Greg, it would be less heartbreaking. 

He found himself at his desk, writing on his laptop once his suitcase packed. 

He found himself typing a few words without a problem, his fingers seemed to fly on the keyboard on their own accord before the idea could even really form in his head. Words formed into sentences and then quickly turned into paragraphs. 

He had managed to write two pages before his laptop was warning him that it had a low battery and he forced himself to stop with great reluctance. 

  
He carefully scrutinised the two pages and he made several edits once the laptop was plugged in again. He allowed a feeling of pride to settle in his chest for a brief moment and smiled at his efforts. It had been the most that he had been able to write since Greg had given him that challenge of writing something. It had been nearly impossible to write at times, he hardly knew what to write about and it had been difficult to pick up a pen in between the chaos of work, dealing with his brother, or the occasional spells of melancholy he found himself in. If he did write, he tried to craft each sentence perfectly, everything that he wrote had to be there with a purpose. He knew that he could not write something that was less than perfect even if it was a first draft that would end up in the back of the drawer and no one other than him would ever read it. The two pages that he had written were not awful in his eyes but he had a lot of improvements to make before he would consider it to be ‘good.’ 

Mycroft closed his laptop with a sigh, the feeling of elation that he had disappeared as soon as his laptop went off and he had found himself back into reality. The pain in his chest came back with a vengeance, he had managed to leave it behind when he had become wrapped up in his story and had almost forgotten about it. He knew that he should have been happy with his progress, thrilled even. He just wished that the surge of creativity he had experienced did not come at the cost of having a constant ache in his chest because of Gregory Lestrade. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments keep me going !
> 
> Any ideas of what Mycroft would actually write? Suggest away!


	16. Chapter 16

Sherlock barely glanced at the sheets of paper that Mycroft had handed him before he threw it on the table and brought his attention back to his phone. 

Mycroft opened up his mouth and closed it again before he picked up the papers and removed the wrinkles out of them from when Sherlock had grabbed them. He placed them neatly on the table, knowing full well that Sherlock was probably not going to even cast an eye over them. 

“Are you going to look at them?” Mycroft asked. “I thought that it would be important to have the telephone number of the hotel and the other places that I attend to be when I am on holiday. I’ve made a schedule of what I will be doing and I thought that it would be sensible for you to have a copy of it if you need me.” 

Sherlock glanced up from his phone and rolled his eyes. “Why would I need you?” he asked. “You are going to be away for a weekend. I can look after myself, I’m not going to get high even if it is increasingly tempting the longer I spend with you.”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again, he tried to think of something suitable to say in response. He tried to keep his face neutral in the attempt to hide the concern for his brother that was constantly simmering deep within him. “Greg is also going to have his phone with him at all times as well,” Mycroft managed to utter out. “If you need us, we will be there at any time.”

“Greg?” Sherlock asked, lifting his head from his phone. “Who is Greg?”

“Lestrade,” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “How do you not know his name? He is possibly the only other person in the world who cares you as much as I do.”

Sherlock shrugged as he glanced back at his phone. “Must have deleted it at some point, didn’t see it as important and it was taking up space.”

Mycroft nodded in understanding. “Lestrade is going to be contactable if you need him. We are going to be in the same bed and breakfast and the two of us should be together.”

Sherlock picked up the schedule that Mycroft had typed out that morning and rolled his eyes, letting out a noise of disgust. “You’ve made a schedule for things that you would do on holiday?” he asked in disbelief. “You are meant to have fun on a holiday and enjoy yourself.”

“I will be enjoying myself on holiday,” Mycroft replied. “It’s scheduled.”

“You can’t schedule fun,” Sherlock said, shaking his head at Mycroft. “No wonder you can hardly write. I’ve read what you’ve been writing, it’s awful. It’s not a surprise. ”

“What do you mean?” Mycroft asked. “You know that it is rude to go through other people’s belongings. I have discussed this with you countless times.”

Sherlock did not attempt to hide his smirk behind his phone. “Brother dear, it is not my fault that you told me that I was needing to read more and I found your journal. I thought that it was a very sad and hilarious handwritten book.”

“You did not need to crack the code that I had set for it,” Mycroft sniffed. 

“It was a wet afternoon and I had nothing to do,” Sherlock shrugged. “It was hardly challenging and it took me ten minutes. Child’s play.” 

Mycroft did not say anything for several long moments, debating if he was going to ask his brother a certain question. He tried to act disinterested and straightened out his cufflinks as he spoke. “What do you think that I need to do then?” he asked. “To make my writing better.” 

Sherlock shrugged as he placed his feet up into the armchair, smirking at Mycroft’s noise of disgust. “I don’t know,” he sighed. “Perhaps start to live your life a bit and you’ll find yourself there with your writing. ”

“You’ve picked that up from therapy or an NA session,” Mycroft commented. 

  
“From those awful self-help books that you or the staff have made me read,” Sherlock replied. “I did not have anything else to read and there are only so many games of scrabble I can play before I have my brain melt.” 

“How is one meant to start living their life?” Mycroft asked. 

“They don’t make a schedule for a start,” he said after several long moments with a shrug. “They just...live.”

Mycroft did not say anything for a long moment. It had been such a long time since he and Sherlock had a somewhat civil conversation and he usually found himself rather lost in the rare occasions when Sherlock and himself were not firing insults at another and were talking to another as equals. 

  
“I will send you a postcard,” he said eventually. 

Sherlock looked up from his phone with a smirk. “And I will not read it.”

Mycroft let out a quiet chuckle, rather pleased that his brother was more like himself than he had been in years even if he was rather rude.

* * *

“How has the writing been going?” Greg asked, breaking the comfortable silence that he had grown between them on the train. 

He closed his book and handed the tickets that he had tucked in the back of the book to the ticket collector, thanking them quietly as they were handed back to him. He did not go back to his book and placed it on the table, his eyes glued to the window for several moments before he turned back to Mycroft. 

“Have you managed to get any ideas at all?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft put down his biography of Van Gogh that he bought from a used book shop the afternoon before, he had always been rather fond of his paintings in a way that he could never describe. He almost found himself rather moved by them in a way that only books had ever done before. 

He found himself flying through the pages of the biography from the moment that he sat in the train, unable to put it down. While he found Vincent and his art to be interesting, it was the relationship that Vincent had with his brother, Theo, that Mycroft found to be the most fascinating aspect of the book. 

It felt so familiar with his own life that it pained him considerably. He had never emphasised with anyone that he had read about in a book before even if they had been dead for one hundred years. He almost felt rather inspired to write about the Van Gogh brothers and their relationship but he knew that he lacked the talent to do them justice. 

  
  


Mycroft shook his head and glanced out fo the window. “I have ideas but they would not be considered to be good,” he said. “I have tried to write and I seem to have little talent, it is impossible to write when I’m happy or write something that is.”

Greg nudged his foot from under the table. “I don’t think that is true,” he said. “You are absolutely brilliant and when you get around to writing something.”

“I have admittedly felt rather inspired by the book that I’m reading,” Mycroft eventually said, after summoning a large amount of courage. “I do not know if I would write it. It is not very happy the story of the Van Gogh brothers.”

“You don’t have to write something that is entirely happy,” Greg said. “This challenge was more for your happiness. You would write whatever and I’m going to be pleased as long as you are happy when writing and at the end of it. This is going to be the thing that helps you get through this situation, you don’t have to write a masterpiece or be a best seller, this is about what is going to bring you some happiness.”

“If I had to write something what would it be?” Mycroft asked. “I believe that writing would be much easier if someone just told me what to write.”

“Then what would be the point in writing if you wrote what someone else wanted? You write for yourself, no for anyone else,” Greg said. “ If I had to say... I could see you going down the science fiction route or even romance.”   
  


“Become the next Jane Austen?” he scoffed. 

“Why not?” Greg asked. “There is nothing that is stopping you. The only thing that is stopping you is yourself.”

“I suppose that you are right,” Mycroft said after several moments of contemplation. “Hopefully this is an inspiring weekend.”

“It will be!” Greg grinned. “You need to keep looking on the bright side and you’ll get there eventually.”

Mycroft gave him a shy smile that he attempted to hide behind his book. he tried to ignore the feeling of dread that had settled in the bottom of his stomach, a constant stomach ache that seemed to get worse on the run-up to the trip to Scotland 

He wondered what would get him through the weekend as he knew that it would nearly be impossible to even pretend to only care for Greg platonically. He was still not sure if it was better to speak or die when it came to his feelings for Greg, he hoped that he would know the answer soon. 

  
  


* * *

“What is going to help you get through this?” Mycroft asked the question had obviously been on his mind for some time. He seemed rather hesitant to ask, he started and stopped several times until he could get the question out. 

Greg placed his coat on the table and pulled down his overnight back from the luggage rack on the train and did the same for Mycroft’s suitcase. “I don’t know,” he answered, his eyes glued to Mycroft’s suitcase to avoid looking at him. “I don’t think that I really need anything to keep me through life. I just take one day as it comes.”

“Do you think that you focus on other people in the attempt to avoid dealing with your own problems?” Mycroft asked, his voice knowing. 

“How long have you been sitting on that?” Greg asked with a sigh.

“Months,” Mycroft replied. “ More so during the train journey. It explains why you care so much for my brother and your desire for me to be happy.”

Greg sat down on his seat heavily, suddenly feeling more exhausted than he had been all day even after hours of travelling. “Someone needs to be looking out for the two of you,” he said. 

Mycroft nodded and steepled his fingers under his chin. “I do look out for you,” he said. “At least things with Karen seem to be going well. I saw you out with her the other day, I’m glad that things are working well.”

Greg let out a half-hearted chuckle and shook his head. “We get on as well as two people getting a divorce are doing. We are being civil, it makes things easier to get done.” 

Mycroft blinked. “I’m sorry.”   
  


Greg shook his head. “ I know that you aren’t.” 

Mycroft pretended to be fascinated by his book even if they were approaching their stop in Edinburgh Waverly in a matter of moments. “What do you think of the timing?” he quietly asked. 

“Depends on what you think of it?” He replied with a shrug. “It is up to you. We could set some rules if you want?”

“I do not know what is best,” Mycroft replied honestly. “Timing-wise, we are in a better situation but... my brother-”

“You do need to put yourself first occasionally,” Greg said, placing his hand on top of Mycroft’s and giving it a tight squeeze. “You have to let yourself be happy occasionally.”

Mycroft did not say anything for a long moment. “I’m afraid that happiness does not often come to me and when it does, it is quick to leave.”

“Then I will make sure that this weekend will stay with you for as long as you can,” Greg said, squeezing his hand tight. “It will just be the two of us and then we can act as if nothing has changed when we get back to London for your brother’s sake if you want it. The timing is different in Scotland.”

“The time zone is the same,” Mycroft said, hesitantly. “I...would very much like it though.”

He offered Greg a shy smile, Greg grinned in response. 

The train slowly pulled into Edinburgh Waverly and he practically dragged Mycroft out of the train, feeling as if he had entered a new universe where the problems of their real-world in London did not quite matter as much. 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg knew that he would not be able to leave Edinburgh as the same person as he was before or at least the person who he pretended to be when he left Edinburgh Waverly with Mycroft.

Greg knew that he would not be able to leave Edinburgh as the same person as he was before or at least the person who he pretended to be when he left Edinburgh Waverly with Mycroft. 

He did not know what would happen when they returned to London on Monday but Greg could not bring himself to care, he wanted to avoid reality as much as he could over the weekend. As he was far as he was concerned, for the most part, his life and his problems that he had in the real world were down in London; Edinburgh was a fresh start even if somewhat temporary. 

They checked into the hotel shortly after a short walk from Edinburgh Waverly, a much-needed walk after being on the train for a long journey. A Georgian terraced house, a ten minute walk away from Princess Street and a short walk from the Castle. Greg had booked the hotel- two rooms- based on the recommendation of a coworker, he had insisted on doing so, Mycroft had organised the train tickets and arranged for his schedule to be cleared somehow. 

They walked up the long corridors of the hotel, Greg carrying Mycroft’s suitcase and his overnight bag, he had been awfully insistent on doing so even if his arms were starting to ache. Their rooms were on opposite sides of the corridor but did not go in to unpack, not too sure what to do or where to go. 

“Which one is your room?” Mycroft eventually asked after clearing his throat. He took his suitcase from Greg’s hand and shuffled on the carpet. “Thank you, I do hope that my suitcase was not too much of a bother. We should have probably taken a taxi to save you the effort.”

Greg shook his head and attempted to discreetly get rid of the ache in his shoulder. “You know that it would have been a fortune to get a taxi, tourist prices,” he said. “I needed the walk after being on the train since eight. It’s the best way to take in the city, you can hardly experience a place if you just take a taxi. You need to walk in order to take in the place. I used to spent my days off just walking around London when I first came up.”

“I did the same,” Mycroft confessed with a smile. “ Sherlock and I used to walk around London aimlessly, we could easily spend a whole day doing it...It was the only thing that we could agree to do when I could take him out- I should not be talking about him, not this weekend.” 

“I don’t mind if you talk about him,” Greg said with a shrug. 

Mycroft shook his head, “This weekend should be an escape from reality,” he said. “The real world does not exist for the most part.”

Greg nodded and shuffled on the carpet. “Right,” he said. “My room is actually where you are standing, yours is on the other side.” 

They performed an awkward dance of switching sides in the narrow corridor. Mycroft’s suitcase hit his leg and Mycroft bumped into the small table that was covered in leaflets of tourist attractions. 

“I should let you get into your room,” Mycroft said as he picked up the leaflets that he had scattered on the floor. “You must be feeling tired from the travelling...we should go out for dinner or a drink once you are ready- only if you would like to do so.”

“That would be great,” Greg said, feeling somewhat lost in his new world that he and Mycroft had entered in, feeling as lost as he did when he was a teenager when it came to someone who he fancied horribly. He suddenly wished that he knew the rules or at least had a map to navigate it . “I should...you know. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Mycroft nodded, neatly placing the leaflets back onto the table. “I would like to say something,” he said, somewhat hesitantly and stumbling on the words. “I am very glad that you are here with me...in this time zone.”

He removed the imaginary wrinkles from his coat and let out a deep breath, nodding once in Greg’s direction and walked into room wordlessly. The door left slightly ajar. 

Greg stood in the corridor for a moment, not quite sure what he was supposed to do. 

He ran his hand through his hair and reluctantly went into his room. He placed his bag on the bed and frowned at the tartan bedsheets and the curtains in the room. He removed his jacket, throwing it on the ancient armchair that was in the corner before he left the room. 

He wondered if Mycroft’s room had the hideous bedsheets and curtains and he decided that he better have a look to quell his curiosity, mostly just wanting an excuse to see Mycroft even if he had only been on his own for several moments. 

  
He left his room and knocked on the door, shoving his hands into his pockets as he waited for Mycroft to answer. 

“You did not need to knock,” Mycroft said once he answered the door. “You could have just let yourself in.”

Greg took a step back, suddenly feeling as awkward as he did as a teenager. “I...I was just curious about your bedsheets,” he stuttered out. 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “The bedsheets?” he asked, rather amused. “What about my bedsheets makes you curious?” 

Greg ran his hand through his hair and tried to think of something suitable to say. “...I’m also curious about the curtains...to see if they were tartan.”

Mycroft let out an amused noise, not quite a laugh, almost nervous. “I should let you inspect them, to help your curiosity.”

Mycroft opened up the door and stepped to the side to allow Greg into this room. The curtains and the bedsheets were the same horrid tartan that was in his room. 

Mycroft closed the door, standing somewhat awkwardly by it. “Now that you’ve seen the curtains and the bedsheets, I suppose that you will be going.”

Greg suddenly felt a lot braver than he did before, not entirely sure where he had found this sudden burst of courage. “I could stay if you would like me to?” he said. 

Mycroft swallowed hard, closed his eyes, debating with himself internally, before he nodded. “I would very much like you to do so,” he said, his voice quiet. “It will be the only time that the timing will be right, I suppose. I intended to make the most of it.” 

Without warning or the chance to utter out a reply, Mycroft strode up to him with a confidence that seemed to have come out of nowhere and kissed him. His hand his cupped jaw and Greg was pressed against the wall, only being capable to kiss Mycroft and to run his hands through his hair, catching on the product that he used. 

He was not sure how long they kissed, minutes, or hours. Greg could not bring himself to care, time felt relevant in his universe. 

Mycroft reluctantly pulled back, breathing hard. His hair a mess from where Greg had run his fingers through it. “I do apologise, I am not entirely too sure what came over me. I think that-”

“You think too much,” Greg replied. 

Without a second thought, he tugged at the bottom of the jumper that Mycroft was wearing, urging him to take it off. He gently pushed Mycroft into the horrid tartan bedsheets and stood over him for a long moment, waiting to see how Mycroft reacted. 

Mycroft did not move off the bed, only moving to remove his jumper, his eyes hungry.    
  


“We can think about things later,” Greg said, unbuttoning his shirt, throwing it onto the floor without care. “As far as I’m concerned, we are making use of the timing that we have and I’m not wasting a second.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Greg pulled away from the bed and looked at the bedsheets, seemingly particularly intrested in them. “Do you think that if we did get together back in the day...do you think that we would have lasted?”'

He woke to Greg leaning over him, lazily pressing kisses along his jaw. He had not been aware that he had fallen asleep or that he had managed to do so, the lamp in his room was still on, a muffled glow that covered the room.

“Are we actually going to leave this hotel room this weekend?” Mycroft murmured, an amused tone in his voice. “Or are we going to stay in the bed the whole time? To be perfectly honest, I would not mind if we never left.” 

Greg chuckled and intertwined their fingers together, pressing a kiss on his knuckles. “It is very tempting,” he smirked. “You are a vision in these tartan sheets.” 

Mycroft let out an undignified snort and shook his head. “You are far too kind,” he said. “ They are horrid looking sheets. I do not care much for tartan.”

Greg shuffled in the bed and wrapped an arm around him, guided by instinct, Mycroft rested his head on Greg’s chest, their fingers still tangled around another. “I suppose we should maybe leave bed at least once,” he said. “It would be a shame to go all the way to Edinburgh, never to leave the room and have to look at these horrible bedsheets the whole time.” 

Mycroft hummed happily as Greg ran fingers through his hair with the hand that was not entwined with his fingers. He knew that he could happily never leave this bed again or see anyone else but Greg. He knew that it would be increasingly difficult to get back into reality by Monday. 

“I suppose that we could leave the bed at least once,” Mycroft murmured into Greg’s chest. “I would be more than happy to stay here and not think about the real world ever again.” 

“It would be so much easier if the real world never existed,” Greg said in agreement. “We don’t need to think about it for a few days at least and just enjoy ourselves.”

“What are we in this reality?” Mycroft asked, somewhat hesitantly. “Are we already together in this world or is it new?”

The question had been weighing on his mind since he had stepped off the train. A hot and heavy question that he had been almost afraid to ask, one that could be uttered when they were completely removed from reality and in Edinburgh. 

Greg’s fingers stopped running through his hair momentarily. “What would you like it to be?” he asked, biting his lip. “Would we be different people from who we are in London?” 

“I assure that our reality does not matter in this universe,” Mycroft eventually said, uncertain. “I’d like to think that we were not brought together after over a decade because of...you know.”

“We met again at a party,” Greg said. “We saw another and I asked you for a drink, we reconnected and we are what we are now.” 

Mycroft twisted around in the bed so he could look at Greg with ease. “How long have we been together?” he asked. “I need to get into character, I could write about this.” 

Greg let out a breathy noise as Mycroft started to press kisses down his chest. Mycroft stashed that infomation somewhere in his mind palace for future reference, a rather hopeful thing to do . “Several years,” he said. “We are celebrating an anniversary this weekend or we’ve just never left the honeymoon phase.”

“I do like the sound of that,” Mycroft said in between kisses, slowly trailing his way down. “It will be a shame that it will have to end. I think-”

Greg cut him off before he could finish his sentence, pulling him up to kiss him. “You think too much,” he murmured. He started to scatter kisses around Mycroft’s jaw, his stubble scratching against his cheek. He suddenly flipped him onto his back, pressing him against the headboard. “We can think and talk about this later, I want to enjoy this weekend for what it is, I don’t even want to think about the real world.”

His hand trailed downwards, resting on his thigh teasingly. 

“I thought that we were not going to spend the whole time we are away in this hotel room,” Mycroft said with a raised eyebrow. He did not complain where Greg’s hand was and did not attempt to move it or even protest. 

“We can go out after,” Greg murmured, pressing kisses to his neck. “I think that it would be more socially acceptable to shag my partner in this hotel room than in Edinburgh Castle. I don’t think that your people could let us get away with that, Myc.” 

Mycroft let out a giggle and attempted to hide it by pressing his face into Greg’s shoulder. He also tried to hide the soft expression that was on his face when he caught a glimpse of his face on the mirrored wardrobe door when Greg said the word  _ partner.  _ He reminded himself that it was only for the weekend, he could not allow himself to get too attached. 

He looked up at the mirror and saw a rather fond expression on Greg’s features. He looked rather deep in thought as he pressed kisses along the freckles on his arm. 

  
“What are you thinking about?” Mycroft asked. He pulled him in close to kiss him. He tasted of the cigarettes, coffee, and the shortbread that he had nibbled on between rounds to “ _ keep my energy up, so I can bugger you until the bed breaks,”  _ he had said in response to Mycroft wrinkling his nose at him getting crumbs on the bedsheets. 

Greg kissed him lazily, his hands cupping his jaw. “It hardly matters, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I was just thinking about something silly.”

_ Sweetheart _ , the name caused an odd feeling in Mycroft’s stomach and his heart, it twisted in a way and left a warm feeling in his middle, the same one that he got when he had a large mug of warm sugary tea. 

“What is it?” Mycroft asked. 

Greg pulled away from the bed and looked at the bedsheets, seemingly particularly intrested in them. “Do you think that if we did get together back in the day...do you think that we would have lasted?” 

Mycroft thought carefully for a moment, with great reluctance he shook his head. “I thought about it so many times,” he confessed. “I don’t know if Sherlock would have allowed me to have a relationship. I did want to call so many times and I did see you one more time in the club, you were with someone else. I thought that I had blown my chance...I stupidly let you get away.”

Greg turned so he was sitting on the bed facing him. “I did think about the two of us,” he said. “I never did stop thinking about you. I know that it was only two nights and phonecalls but…I did wonder what it would be like if you never received that phone call.”

Mycroft swallowed hard. He wanted nothing more than to avoid the conversation, the plunge back into reality after being into bed was ice cold and he disliked thinking about the past. “I did as well,” he said, his voice thick and sounding rather foreign to him. “It shouldn’t matter, that is all in the past and London.”

“Do you think that in another universe that we would have lasted if we got together that night?” Greg asked after several moments. 

Mycroft closed his eyes, almost afraid to see Greg’s expression and nodded. It felt almost painful about how much he believed and how much hope he had about the matter.   


“What about in London?” he asked. “Do you think that we could only have this in Edinburgh or could we last?”

Mycroft did not answer, silencing him with a kiss to avoid the question. “You think too much,” he said, uttering out the words that Greg had said several times before. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't plan to write another chapter so soon but oops! 
> 
> Thanks for commenting and kudos-ing, they keep me going when I write!


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> '“What are you thinking?” Greg asked.
> 
> “You normally tell me that you think too much,” Mycroft eventually uttered, a half-hearted smile crept on his face for a brief second before it disappeared. '

He found himself able to write in the early hours of the morning. Wrapped up in his dressing gown and sat by the small desk that was in the room with his notebook, the words seemed to flow out of Mycroft’s pen while Greg snored away peacefully. 

The words were able to flow out his pen with ease, somehow managing to keep up with his thoughts. He was normally so stunted when it came to writing and he often gave up before he could write several good sentences. It was different this time, his crafted sentences with ease and they somehow turned into paragraphs.

He almost felt rather pleased with his progress even if the story would mostly end up unfinished. He did not think that there would be a happy ending to it, it did not seem possible. He doubted that he would be able to even think of such a thing, happiness did not come naturally to him and it would be impossible for him to think of happiness even if it was fictional.

He set the story in Edinburgh, he felt somewhat inspired after the walking around the Old Town that he and Greg did after they had dinner. The streets were mostly empty and they had slightly too much scotch, he almost felt rather giddy and that the world had paused for a brief moment, a jolt of electricity that ran through him as Greg connected their hands together. 

He doubted Greg that felt that spark, that jolt. He knew that Greg hardly gave the action a second thought, Greg probably held a lot of people’s hands. No one had ever held Mycrot’s hand before as they walked in the streets together, not embarrassed to be with seen with him in public or fearful of the complications that could possibly arise from their relationship being out in the open. 

For years, Mycroft pretended that he had little desire for a man to hold his hand. He told himself that the bother and negative attention would not be worth it and he did not care to deal with the stares or homophobic comments. He had little desire to risk his career over his immature longing for someone to hold his hand, he knew that it would possibly be disastrous if he stepped out of line in the old boys club that he reluctantly had to join once he left university and into the office. 

It was the happiest that he had been in years. He never knew that such a small gesture could cause an inexplicable sense of happiness within him. The only way that he could express it was through writing. It almost felt like he was trapping that moment in a glass jar and he would be able to keep it with him for the rest of his life. 

Greg pressed a kiss to the top of his head once he had eventually got out of bed. The action came so naturally to him. “Having some luck with the writing, sweetheart?” he asked. 

Mycroft placed his pen down and closed his eyes. ‘ _ You cannot get too used to this, it will not last when you get back to London and the real world.’  _ he reminded himself harshly. 

“I have had some luck,” Mycroft said, forcing a smile on his face. “Debatable if it is any good though.”

He pretended to take a glimpse at his notebook over Mycroft’s shoulder. “Looks like a masterpiece in the making,” he grinned. 

  
“You flatter me too much,” Mycroft replied, feeling rather shy. “You would be saying differently if you actually read it. It is just some scribblings that will never see the light of day.” 

“I guess that you don’t want to earn that fifty quid then,” Greg said dramatically. “Are you happy?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth involuntarily twitched upwards. “What are you talking about?”

  
Greg pressed a kiss to his cheek. “The point of this challenge,” he said. “Are you happy right now as you are writing it? At this moment of time are you happy?”

He nodded to Greg’s question after a moment of reluctance, almost fearful to admit the truth. He rarely had moments of happiness or ones that lingered inside him for more than several moments and had always been prone to bouts of melancholy. It almost felt like admitting happiness was a defeat. 

Greg wrapped his arms around his shoulders and pressed another kiss to his head. “I’m happy too,” he smiled. “I should let you get back to writing your masterpiece, shouldn't I? I don’t want to keep you away from your writing much longer.”

Mycroft let out an undignified snort. “I would hardly call it that,” he said. “I only managed to find time to get some scribblings down because you exhausted yourself after last night and you are rather distracting.”

“Hopefully a welcome one,” Greg smirked.

Greg pulled off the t-shirt that he had been sleeping in, Mycroft’s eyes lingered on his chest admiringly. He would miss the sight of it when he was back in London. He could write prose about how surprisingly toned it was and how safe he felt when he rested his head on Greg’s chest with Greg’s strong arms wrapped around him and listened to the steady beat of his heart.

“Very much so,” Mycroft agreed, unable to bring any attention to his notebook.

“I’m going for a shower,” Greg said. “We can test out if it is big enough tor two of us if you care to join me?”

Mycroft watched him walk into the bathroom and tried to turn his attention back to the neglected notebook. He let his pen hover above the page for several moments, but neglected his notebook and removed his dressing gown and made his way to the bathroom when he heard the water start to run. 

* * *

They had found a small cafe in the Royal Mile for breakfast. A small and cosy establishment that Greg had picked out, Mycroft had chosen the restaurant where they had been to dinner before. 

They were huddled close together with their cups of coffee, the table covered in leaflets for tourist attractions, quietly debating with another with how they would spend the day together. Greg did not care too much about where they would visit, he would have been happy to follow Mycroft anywhere. It only made sense to do so, he knew that he would never get an opportunity like this again. 

He never cared much for the museums and art galleries after dragged around them at school and old girlfriends and being lectured about objects that he didn’t care for or had little interest in, but he found himself happily agreeing to go to museums that Mycroft had an interest in. 

“You know that you have a say in where we can go,” Mycroft said, sipping at his cappuccino. “This is your holiday as well.”

Greg nibbled at a corner of his piece of toast after he dipped it into his fried egg. “I just want you to enjoy your holiday.”

“I have been enjoying the holiday,” Mycroft nodded. “You should be allowed to enjoy it as well.” 

Greg put down his slice of toast. “I am enjoying it,” he said with a smile. “It has been a wonderful escape from reality. I’m just wanting you to enjoy this time as much as you can. You deserve to have some time off and to enjoy yourself.”

  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and put down his cappuccino. “Shouldn’t I be telling you the same thing? You have every right to enjoy this time as well. You said that this holiday was going to get you through this time.”

Greg shrugged and put down his fork. “It’s not the holiday that has kept me going,” he uttered after several moments. “It’s you that has been getting me through this time. I know that this is not the thing that you want to hear, but I don’t think that I could go back to London and go back to how things were.”

The expression on Mycroft’s face was unreadable and he suddenly looked like he wanted nothing more than to leave the cafe but was unable to do so. He let out a sigh and ran his fingers through his hair before he reached out to take hold of Mycroft’s hand. 

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Greg sighed. 

Mycroft did not say anything for several moments, a confused expression on his face and a wrinkle in his forehead, looking as if he was trying to solve a complex puzzle in his mind. 

“What are you thinking?” Greg asked. 

“You normally tell me that you think too much,” Mycroft eventually uttered, a half-hearted smile crept on his face for a brief second before it disappeared. 

“I want to hear what you are thinking,” Greg said with a reassuring smile and gave his hand a squeeze. 

Mycroft shook his head and removed his hand from Greg’s. “It would spoil our time in this universe,” he murmured. “Let’s not spoil things and just enjoy this time away. We have only another day after tomorrow to enjoy this universe before we have to go to reality.”

There was a sudden wave of courage that ran through Greg, he had little idea when or how he had lost it. “ We are going to talk about things, talk about us eventually,” he said. “I don’t see why this can’t carry on when we are back in London. I don’t know if you are just scared and you know that I’m a good thing.” 

  
“I know that you are,” Mycroft said standing up from the table. “I do not understand why you willingly put yourself in my life and deal with my situation. You could easily have backed away and left once you realised what you were putting yourself into but you insist on staying. I care about you enough to know that this… I will not make you happy.”

He stood up and walked to the counter and paid for breakfast. Greg tried to hold back his sigh and placed his hand in his hands, wishing that he had kept his mouth shut. He watched Mycroft by the till, who generously put money into the tip jar once he had paid for the two of them before he left the cafe. 

Greg sat at the table, not too sure if he should follow or give Mycroft some space. He waited for a moment and grabbed his coat and Mycroft’s and left the cafe, following his footsteps. 

“You don’t know what I want,” he said, once he had caught up to Mycroft, thrusting his coat into his hands. “You can’t make up my mind and you need to stop pushing me away.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft muttered somewhat sheepishly. “I know that there is a lot we need to...address. I can assure you that we can potentially do it one day, but not now. “

Greg nodded and tried to give him a reassuring smile, discreetly taking Mycroft’s hand, covering them with his coat that he had across his arm from the busy street. “Let’s just go and enjoy the rest of the day, I’m not wanting this to spoil a good day. We can talk about things later.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg looked up at him and lazily traced the scattering of freckles on his leg. “I have to come to terms with it,” he said. “I think that this weekend has made it clear that I can’t go back to the way things were before.” 
> 
> “Come to terms with what?” Mycroft asked. 

The hours seemed to melt away into one and Mycroft could not understand how he managed to find himself in Greg’s arms that evening. He knew that he should have been more aware of the time and perhaps he should have forced himself to look at his watch more often during the day as they drifted between tourist attractions, the Castle and museums, or just wandered up the Royal Mile or through the Old Town with thier hands linked with another. 

He had never enjoyed himself so much in one day or allowed himself to experience this amount of happiness for such a long time. He wondered if this is what Sherlock had meant when he told him that he should start living his life, he had felt that he had lived more in one day than he had done in years, not since the eighties at least. 

“You are having a deep thought,” Greg murmured, his fingers running through Mycroft’s hair. “I can always tell when you are.”

Mycroft shuffled in the bed so he could look at Greg, reluctantly pulling his head away from his chest. “I thought that you tell me that I think too much about things,” he said, a shy smile appearing on his face. 

Greg let out a soft chuckle and gently smoothed out the wrinkle that formed on Mycroft’s forehead. He pressed a feather-soft kiss on the spot and hummed quietly to himself. “You are thinking about tomorrow morning aren’t you?” he asked.

Mycroft let out a sigh and nodded his head. He knew that reality was slowly creeping upon him and Greg. It had been a niggle in the back of his mind from the moment that he had stepped on the train from London several days ago. He had tried his best to ignore it but it had been growing louder as the days passed. 

It was only brief happiness that he allowed himself to experience during the weekend with Greg before he had to go back to reality, but he knew the effects of it would be long-lasting and would stay with him. He knew that he had to trap the feeling as he wrote, it would be the only way that he would be able to keep it with him.

“It is a shame that this won’t be able to last,” Mycroft eventually murmured, tracing his fingers across the horrid tartan bedsheets to avoid looking at Greg. 

“You know that the two of us could exist in another city? I don’t see why we can only be in Edinburgh,” Greg said. “You know that we are good together.”

Mycroft did not say anything and looked out into the street from the gap in-between the curtains. Greg had made a half-hearted attempt to close them the night when they were going to bed but had given up and collapsed into the sheets. 

It had taken him several moments before he had worked up the courage to speak, worried what Greg would think of him and what he would say would suddenly make Greg change his mind about him. He knew that it made him sound absolutely horrid, he was repulsed with the thought when it had first crossed his mind. 

“You aren’t the only thing that I will miss once we go back to London,” he said. “I will miss the feeling of being somewhat ordinary.” 

Greg propped himself up on one elbow with a slightly confused expression on his features. “Ordinary?” he asked. “Ordinary isn’t a word that I would use to describe you, you are brilliant, fantastic”

Mycroft let out a light chuckle and shook his head. “You will think I’m awful if I say it.” 

“It would take a good bit to make me go off you, sweetheart,” Greg said, pressing a kiss on Mycroft’s hand. “What is it?”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment and looked at the bedsheets, trying to count the individual lines in the tartan bedsheets. “I will miss not having to deal with Sherlock,” he confessed. “I’ve barely thought about him this weekend.”

He had felt so utterly selfish that he had forgotten about Sherlock over the weekend. He had little idea on how he managed to do so, Sherlock had been constantly on his mind since he was a teenager and the first embers of rebellion and misbehaviour began to spark up in Sherlock. There had never been a day when he hadn’t been worried or stressed about what his brother was up to or his well being. It felt utterly selfish that he had allowed himself to have a good time and to enjoy himself without giving his brother a second thought. 

“It is the extra responsibility and stress that I won’t miss,” Mycroft tried to explain. “ I know that it sounds terrible. I did make it clear that he was to contact me if he needed me- I’ve allowed myself to have my mind on other things, it’s awful.”

Greg shook his head and traced his fingers along with the constellation of freckles on Mycroft’s shoulders. “It must be a change not worrying about him,” he murmured. “It can be a stressful situation dealing with him. The number of times I’ve been kept up at night worrying about him- not as much as you of course. He’s the reason that I’m going grey.”

“The grey does suit you,” Mycroft murmured, running his fingers through Greg’s hair, trying to tame the ruffled locks from the evening’s activities last night. “I always just assumed that it was going grey from all that hair product in the eighties. I’ve always really loved your hair, that impossible fringe of yours that kept falling in front of your eyes when you danced.”

“Is that the reason that you fell for me? “ Greg asked with a raised eyebrow. “You liked my hair? Is that why you approached me that first night?”

Mycroft let out a chuckle and shook his head. “I just saw you sitting there by the bar, you had this startled look about you. Like a deer caught the headlights. I was wanting to approach you, I could tell that it was your first time.” 

  
“And do what?” Greg asked. “Give me a handshake and tell me about the gay agenda?” 

“The gay agenda?” Mycroft asked, wrinkling his nose in confusion. “I was wanting to ask if you wanted a drink,” he said. “I didn’t know how to approach you. I didn’t think that someone like you would be intrested in me, you were the best looking in the bar.”

Greg let out a snort. 

“You were,” Mycroft said. “You the only one that I was interested in that night. I think that I fell hard when you grinned at me and invited me over to you. I was just about to go home before you invited me over.”

“Aren’t you glad that you stayed?” Greg smirked. “To think that we wouldn’t have met if you went home or if you didn’t go to the club that night.”

“I’m so very glad that I stayed,” Mycroft murmured. “I didn’t normally visit gay bars. I thought that it would be slightly more inspiring when I turned twenty-one. I was wrong though, it lost all of the novelty when I could legally get in.”

“You used to sneak into gay bars?” Greg asked, the look of surprise painted on his features. “I can’t imagine you doing anything like that in the slightest. I thought that Sherlock was the rebellious one between the two of you.” 

Mycroft propped himself up on his elbows and gave Greg a faux-serious look. “I was nineteen and lived in the middle of the countryside and horrifically gay. How else was I going to meet someone or listen to Wham!?” he said dryly.

Greg reached over and kissed him. “I’m just so very happy that you did allow yourself to enjoy yourself on occasion. I’m glad that this weekend has let you do this. This is the healthiest I’ve seen you look in a while.”

“Must be the result of getting more than three hours of sleep,” Mycroft shrugged. “It is a shame that it can’t last and we have to go back to dealing with my brother.”

Greg stroked his cheek and looked into his eyes, his voice a low murmur. “It’s a different situation with Sherlock,” he said. “He’s not like what he used to be and he is doing a lot better than he was. It’s not like we are going back to square one with him.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and shook his head. “If I let myself believe or hope that he is doing well..it will only end up in disappointment.” 

“Even if it does, which it won’t,” Greg replied, “you’ve got me to help you out. It’s not like you are dealing with this on your own. You’ve got me to look after you, the pair of you.”

“Who is going to help you with your problems?” Mycroft asked, frowning as Greg’s expression dropped once he asked the question. He sighed and wondered if he had crossed the line, he took in a deep breath and made himself continue. “It seems unfair that you are dealing with my brother and I’s petty miseries. I can assist you with yours, you are my partner this weekend.”

Greg shook his head. “You don’t need -” 

Mycroft cut him off before he could finish off his sentence, “I insist,” he said. 

Greg did not say anything for a long moment, deep in thought. “I don’t think that there is anything that you can do,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve been working on it a bit with the bloke I see and I think...it’s a bit stupid.”

Mycroft shook his head and ran his fingers through Greg’s hair. “What is it?” he asked, shuffling on the bed so that Greg’s head was more comfortable on his lap. “I doubt that it is silly.”

Greg looked up at him and lazily traced the scattering of freckles on his leg. “I have to come to terms with it,” he said. “I think that this weekend has made it clear that I can’t go back to the way things were before.” 

“Come to terms with what?” Mycroft asked. 

“Being bisexual,” Greg said.

* * *

Mycroft hesitated by the door for several moments before he had worked up the courage to ring the buzzer. He fiddled with the buttons on his coat and inspected the label of the bottle of wine that he had brought with him, while he waited for Greg to respond. Greg hadn’t told him what he was making for dinner and he struggled to find a suitable wine to pair with the meal. 

It had only been a day since he had parted with Greg at the train station and already a melancholy had fallen over Mycroft and followed him like a dark cloud. Greg had phoned him eight hours after they had parted to ask him if he wanted to come around for dinner. He had accepted the invitation without a moment of hesitation. 

“The door is open,” Greg said, his voice sounding tinny through the speaker.

Mycroft brushed out the imaginary wrinkles from his coat and took several deep breaths before he worked up the courage to push open the door. He could smell the delightful smell of something cooking in the oven, something sweet, and he could hear music and Greg singing once he had approached the door. 

He stood by the door of Greg’s flat for a moment, not sure if he should let himself into the flat or knock. Mycroft sighed and weighed up the pros and cons of doing either before he decided to knock out of politeness, it would be awfully rude not to. 

Greg opened up the door, grinning when he saw him. Mycroft tried to ignore the tug of his heartstrings and the odd feeling in his stomach. He scolded himself for feeling that jolt within him. He told himself a countless amount of times that nothing would be able to happen between him and Greg the moment that they had left the train and were back in London, the moment that their escape from reality had ended. 

“You didn’t need to bring anything,” he said. 

“I was not too sure what would pair with dinner, you never said,” Mycroft said, pushing the bottle in Greg’s direction. “I hope that this is suitable.”

Greg took the bottle of wine from him and kissed his cheek. “Thank you so much,” he smiled. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Mycroft nodded and walked into the flat, removing his coat. He noticed that there was a nervous energy around Greg, he fidgeted and seemed unsure what to say. He opened up the wine and poured two glasses, taking a long sip of his glass. 

“That is a new picture,” Mycroft commented, nodding at the framed picture of Edinburgh Castle that Greg had placed on the wall. “I was not aware that you bought it at the gift shop.”

“I did buy a stuffed Highland cow for my niece as well,” Greg replied. 

“I did consider getting one for Sherlock or a Loch Ness monster but I didn’t think that he would care much for it,” Mycroft quipped. 

Greg took another sip of wine and ran his fingers through his hair. He walked over to a door, his bedroom, Mycroft guessed and pushed it open. The nervous energy radiated off him and he shuffled awkwardly on his feet. 

  
“Is everything alright?” Mycroft asked. “You seem nervous.” 

Greg shook his head and took in a deep breath. “I ended up getting some sheets when I was on holiday...would you like to see them?” 

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. “Bedsheets?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards. “You want me to see your bedsheets?”

Greg took in a deep breath and put down his glass of wine. “If that would be alright with you?”

  
Mycroft took a sip of his wine before he put his glass down on the table. “If you are so insistent,” he said. 

  
He followed Greg into the bedroom and looked at the bedsheets. A grin immediately appeared on his face when he saw the tartan bedsheets that were on Greg’s bed. A thankfully less horrendous pattern than the ones which were in the hotel they stayed in. 

  
Mycroft cleared his throat to hide the smile on his face. “I like the sheets,” he said. “Any reason for them?”

Greg shuffled on his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets deeply as if he could make himself disappear in them. “I just fancied having a bit of Scotland in London,” he said. “ The tartan sheets help me remember the weekend away.”

“Are we in London?” Mycroft asked. “I thought that we were in Edinburgh by looking at that bed.”

He blamed the few sips of wine that he had and how it had gone to his head as he pulled Greg in close and kissed him, quickly making work on Greg’s buttons, 

  
Greg reluctantly pulled away and placed his hands over his own, preventing him from undoing the buttons on his shirt. “I know that you weren’t wanting to do anything when we got back to London,” he murmured. “We don’t have to do so. It was a bit of a stupid idea.”

“We are in Edinburgh as far as I’m concerned,” Mycroft murmured, trapping Greg’s lips in a kiss. “I’m wanting to make use of the time while we are here, I’m not wanting to waste a moment.”

Greg licked his lips and took in a deep breath, a mischievous grin broke out on his face as he undid Mycroft’s belt and slowly sunk to his knees. 


	21. Chapter 21

Greg leaned against the wall of the multi-storey car park and shoved his hands in his pockets in the attempt to protect them against the cold. He watched Sherlock pace along the rows of cars and occasionally take a puff of his cigarette, grumbling to himself about the idiots he was being forced to work with among with several other complaints that Greg could not make out. 

It was not Greg’s chosen place to have a cigarette break and he would rather much be somewhere warm and dry, he had stepped in a puddle and ruined his good shoes- Italian leather ones that Mycroft had bought for him after he was away for work- but it did not matter. He knew that he needed to get Sherlock away from the crime scene for a bit. 

It had been a gruelling case and it had been dragged on for two days. He had barely slept and he knew for a fact that Sherlock had not eaten or had even taken a coffee break. He found it almost impressive that Sherlock was still fully awake and functioning without being keyed up on something other than a few sips of sugary black coffee that Greg managed to get in him. 

Sherlock had grown increasingly irritable as the case had dragged on and little progress had made. He had sighed and smeared each time Anderson had opened up his mouth, Anderson had done the same. The two had been bickering insistently since they had arrived on the case and it had increased as the hours dragged on. 

“How is the violin going ?” Greg asked suddenly, causing Sherlock to stop in his tracks. “It’s been a while since you’ve mentioned it or I’ve heard you play.” 

  
  


Sherlock looked at him as if he had grown three heads and huffed impatiently at him. “Do you not think that we have more important matters to talk about?” he asked. “Even then, I’d much rather you didn’t talk, I’m trying to think.”

Greg rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall, lighting a cigarette for himself. “I know that you don’t mean that,” he said. “I think that you are in just a bad mood because I didn’t let you climb on that fire escape that looked as if it would collapse or that I’ve forced you to have time out.”

  
Sherlock hissed like a cat and scowled at him. “You are so much more tolerable when I was high.”

  
“I much prefer it when you are sober even if you are more of a prat, ” Greg stated simply. “Eight months now and you’ve done so well. I’m proud of you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed at him, looking at him as if he had said something completely ridiculous. “That is almost nauseating, Lestrade. You are not my father.”

Greg puffed at his cigarette and tried his best to hide his smile at Sherlock. Sherlock caught a glimpse at it and rolled his eyes at him and claimed that he was going to be sick. 

“I’ve been there more than your own one has been,” Greg said, trying his best not to smirk as he knew how much it bothered Sherlock. “Mycroft is rather proud of you as well.” 

“It is disgusting that the two of you are friends,” Sherlock scowled. 

Greg tried to hide his smirk and cleared his throat, what he and Mycroft were doing the other night was definitely more than just friendly. He couldn’t even look at his kitchen table without smirking or even look at anything tartan without his stomach twisting and a warm flush going through him, it was like being a teenager again. 

Sherlock had been somewhat oblivious for once about thier arrangement and it had been working. He had never questioned whenever Greg had mentioned that he was going to or was in ‘Edinburgh,’ or that Mycroft was apparently in there and was unavailable. 

  
“Your brother needs to have a friend as much as anyone,” Greg said. “ He is allowed to have a life outside work and worrying about you.”

Sherlock snorted as he put out the cigarette, scuffing it against on the concrete in his fancy shoes. “I think that the closest thing that he has to a life is going to bakery window and gawking at the cakes, sobbing that he can’t have any as it would spoil his failing attempts at a diet.”

Greg opened his mouth and closed it again, biting his tongue. He knew that if he jumped too quickly to his defence, Sherlock would surely know and Mycroft would want to retreat if their relationship was suddenly brought to London. 

“You need to be kinder,” he said. “Just believe me that your brother loves you and cares for you so much. He has always been there for you. You hurt him more than you can imagine, you need to be a lot kinder.”

Greg put out his cigarette and turned his back to Sherlock, shoving his hands back in his pockets as he started to make his way back to the crime scene. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Sherlock asked. “What are you wanting me to say about it?”

Greg looked over his shoulder and sighed. “I think that one day, I don’t know when. You need to realise that your brother is a person and deserves to be treated with as much kindness as he has given you over the years. Apologise to him when you are at it.”

  
Sherlock scowled and flipped his collar up as he walked through the doors or the car park, overtaking him, his coat billowing behind him like a cloak. 

* * *

Greg stretched out on the sofa and gratefully accepted the mug of hot tea that Mycroft handed to him. Mycroft sat on the sofa after a moment of reluctance and allowed himself to be wrapped up in the patchwork quilt that Greg had thrown over his lap. 

  
The quietly pretend to watch the film that was on the television, Greg was far too tired to keep up with the film and kept losing track of the plot, barely knowing what character who was who no matter how many times Mycroft tried to explain to him. Mycroft seemed more focused on playing with his fingers or fussing over him, making sure that he was comfortable. 

He had never expected to have a night on the sofa and in front of the telly. He hadn’t expected Mycroft to turn up at his flat or make him beans and toast, apologising for his lack of cooking abilities. He had only expected Mycroft to rearrange their plans for dinner in some swanky London restaurant, he had been exhausted from work. 

“You know that you didn’t need to do this,” Greg murmured, his cheek pressed into Mycroft’s knee. Mycroft’s fingers ran through his hair and Greg felt like a contented housecat, he would be purring if he was. “I know that it is not the most exciting evening for you.”

  
“You needed me,” Mycroft replied, his accent thicker and less put on with tiredness. “You would do the same for me, we both know that. It is just nice sitting here with you. I’m happy to have less exciting evenings with you.” 

He tangled his fingers in Mycroft’s hand and pressed a kiss to his hand. “I noticed that you left a toothbrush here and a spare suit in the drawer- makes sense with how much time you spend here. I thought that you would prefer to spend time in that swanky flat of yours.”

Mycroft hesitated for a moment and had a sheepish expression on his face. “It is much cosier here than my flat,” he murmured. “It is like we are in Edinburgh here, the real world doesn’t matter.”

  
“You are just saying that as you like my bedsheets,” Greg commented with a smirk. “You do look rather ravishing on them, darling.”

“I could say the same about you,” Mycroft flushed.

  
They pretended to watch the telly together, his head resting on Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft running his fingers through his hair and humming quietly to himself contentedly. It had been years since Greg had felt this relaxed in his home and he had forgotten how wonderful it could be to just to spend the night in front of the telly in comfortable silence. 

  
“Myc,” he said, breaking the silence. "I just have to say something."   


  
Mycroft hummed in response. 

  
“If you ever fancy taking this out of Edinbrugh and moving to London,” he said, “I’m all for it, if you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had this on my google drive for a bit and thought that I would just finish and upload. I hope that it is alright!


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knew that he would have to face reality one day, knowing that this arrangement with Greg couldn’t stay in Edinburgh forever. 

_ ‘If you ever fancy taking this out of Edinburgh and moving to London, I’m all for it.’  _

The sentence had been ringing through his head ever since Greg had uttered it out. He had little idea how he was meant to respond to it, unsure what to think or what he wanted in amongst the crashing of conflicting feelings inside of him. 

He never did respond to what Greg had said to him even if Mycroft had the ability to reply, he could only wade slowly through the thoughts as if he was swimming in syrup amongst the chaos, unable to grasp onto a single thought. He knew that it shouldn’t have been so difficult, there were only two possible answers;  _ yes  _ or  _ no.  _ It really shouldn't have been so difficult, he hardly needed to even speak, he could have nodded or have shaken his head but even that felt impossible.   


Sherlock had decided to phone him moments after Greg had spoken to save him from answering. It was as if he had known that he needed to be rescued from the situation and Mycroft had never been more thankful for a phone call from his brother. He would have happily taken one from the Prime Minister, asking him about what to get his wife for her birthday or what personal problem that he needed help with at that moment to prevent him from responding.

He had taken the phone call into Greg’s bedroom, he had little idea how long he had been away for. He spent longer than he normally would have wanted to do so on the phone call, Sherlock did not even want to talk about anything important, he only wanted access to a keycard to use for a case and to make comment about the family dinner that Mummy had been intent on having among his usual insults. 

By the time that he had finished off the phone call and he had thought about Greg’s desire to move their arrangement to London, Greg was asleep on the sofa, snoring loudly and looking peaceful, much younger than he was already, the years seemed to have melted away from him and the harsh lines that were on his face after a long shift at work had disappeared. 

He placed a kiss on Greg’s forehead and pulled the quilt over his shoulder before he moved to sit on the armchair with one of the books from Greg’s overfilled shelves. He struggled to read the book that he had and tried another book, and another. He had tried so many books to read and there wasn’t a single sentence for him to read!

He steepled his fingers under his chin and sighed with the heavy realisation that he had to think. He knew that it was impossible not to. 

  
He knew that he would have to face reality one day, knowing that this arrangement with Greg couldn’t stay in Edinburgh forever. 

* * *

He was brought out of his sleep by the click of the kettle and the noise of pattering around the kitchen. He did not open his eyes until he heard the sound of something being placed on the table and the noise of footsteps walking out of the kitchen and the noise of the door opening.

Greg lifted his head up from the pillow, groaning at the ache in his back from sleeping on the sofa. He was far too old for snoozing on the sofa, his back always complained when he did so and ached horribly when he did. 

He sat up on the sofa, noticing Mycroft dressed up in his suit with his shoes in his hand and his coat wrapped over his arm, half-way out of the door. He had a sheepish expression on his face once he had realised that he had been caught. 

  
“Where are you going?” Greg asked, his voice still thick with sleep. “Are you sneaking out on me? I’m not going to be happy if that is what you are doing. I’m going to be rather pissed off.”

Mycroft closed the door and sighed. “I have a meeting,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I did not want to wake you up.”

Greg stood up and took the coat away from Mycroft’s arm, throwing it on the back of the sofa. “ I would much rather be told if you were needing to leave. I don’t appreciate having you sneak out of my flat like you are just a one night stand. “

“I’ve made you a cup of tea,” Mycroft said lamely. “I just did not want to disturb you.”

Greg walked over to the door and stood in front of it, prevening Mycroft from leaving. He folded his arms across his chief and tried to give him a serious look. It seemed to work, Mycroft did not even attempt to move, his expression befuddled and sheepish as if he did not know how to react to the situation. 

“I don’t want my boyfriend to be sneaking out of my flat, I’d rather be told if you needed to leave the flat,” Greg said without a second thought. “I don’t care if I am sleeping. I know that you are bothered by what I said last night about us being in London together.”

Mycroft did not say anything and he only blinked. He had a confused expression on his face and he opened up his mouth and closed it again, doing a wonderful impression of a goldfish. Greg could hear the cogs turn in his brain and he would have loved anything more in the world to be in his head. He hardly knew what he would find in there. 

“Are you going to say something?” Greg grumbled. “I am not happy about this. What are you thinking? Say something!”

Mycroft opened his mouth and closed it again, a befuddled expression on his face. He looked at the carpet as if it was the most fascinating thing that he had ever seen. He cleared his throat and finally uttered several words. “I’m your boyfriend?” he asked. 

It was the first time that he had ever thought of Mycroft as that. He had never discussed the arrangement that he had with Mycroft to much detail. He had assumed that they were in a relationship and had been in one since they were in Edinburgh together. He hadn’t seen anybody else and he had assumed that Mycroft had done the same. They had quickly fallen into and continued their arrangement when they were in London even if they were supposedly in ‘Edinburgh,’ thanks to some tartan bedsheets. 

He had assumed that they were in a relationship. He had been happy with that assumption and never felt the need to question it or ask Mycroft about it as they seemed to work and they were perfectly happy together. There was little reason to ask any questions if they were happy together. 

  
“Would it bother you if you were?” Greg asked. 

Mycroft did not say anything for several moments, a puzzled expression on his face. “I know that I love this but I don’t want to be staying in Edinburgh forever. We do need to be in reality occasionally, Myc.” 

The colour seemed to have drained out of Mycroft’s face and he was the same colour as his ironed work shirt. He looked rather anxious and almost looked as if he was going to faint at the revelation that Greg had thought of him as is boyfriend, resembling a deer caught in the headlights. He realised that Mycroft had been taken back but what he had said and probably lacked expertise or the knowledge of how to deal with the situation. 

“We aren’t in Edinburgh, Greg,” Mycroft finally uttered out. “As much as I would like to be in London with you…we need to think about Sherlock.” 

“What is there to think about Sherlock?” Greg asked. “He isn’t in this relationship or an arrangement, it is me and you.”

Mycroft did not say anything for several long moments. Greg tried to ignore the feeling of his heart shattering. He hardly knew that it was even more possible for it to break even more after the end of his marriage and the number of times that Mycroft had told him that they couldn’t be together in the past. He thought that he had somehow managed to protect it enough from further damage.

“You know that I wish to be in London with you,” Mycroft said, deflating slightly. “There is so much that we would have to consider and there is Sherlock...you know that I would love for us to work in London...I’m happy with you.”

“I’m happy with you,” Greg said without a second of hesitation. 

  
“You know that it isn’t easy for the two of us to be in London together,” he said. 

“It would be nice if it was,” Greg sighed, forcing a smile on his face. “Where do we go on from here? I don’t know if you are running because you are scared.”

“I would not want you to settle for me. You could have a much easier life with someone else,” Mycroft murmured, a pained expression on his face. “Sherlock is always going to come first at the end of the day.”

Greg reluctantly stepped away from the door, realising that he was losing the battle. “I do understand, I know how much you care about him. I do almost as much as you do if it was possible. Is it possible for us to work in London without Sherlock knowing?” he asked. 

“I am not entirely sure,” Mycroft murmured rather hesitantly. “I suppose that we could...he would end up finding out one day.”

Greg placed a hand on his cheek, forcing him to look at him. “He will find out one day,” he said. “You are allowed to start having your own life and you are allowed to be happy. I know that I make you happy. You can’t deny it.”

“You do,” he uttered, a hint of a smile on his lips even if it was almost uncertain. 

He pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s lips, gentle but enough to make him want more as if he would ensure that Mycroft would come back to him. He pulled away and straightened Mycroft’s tie for him and sorted his collar. “I shouldn’t keep you away from your meeting,” he said. “Who are you having a meeting with?” 

“Belgium and the Prime Minister,” Mycroft replied. “I would rather be here with you.”   
  


Greg helped him put on his coat and pressed a kiss on his cheek. “Me too,” he said. “You better come back to this flat when you are done. I’m not going to be happy if you don’t or if you ever try to sneak away when I’m sleeping. You can’t just sneak out on me like I’m nothing.”

Mycroft nodded, his expression sheepish. He kissed him and cupped his cheek with a shy expression on his face. “You are certainly not that to me. If I have to be honest, you are the complete opposite. I do hope that you wouldn’t mind too much.”

  
Greg silenced him with a kiss, hoping that it would be enough to convince Mycroft to stay with him and be in London with him.


End file.
